


A Reasonable Amount of Trouble

by xylodemon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Hunters, Alternate Universe - Noir, Bottom Dean, First Time, Getting Together, Implied Bottom Castiel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 08:59:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 85,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7261204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Deano," Donna says brightly. She must still be at the office; the white noise behind her is all hushed voices and keyboard clacks. "I was kind of surprised to hear from you. Word is you're on the wrong side of the law these days."</p><p>"You know me," Dean says, sighing. "I'm always in a reasonable amount of trouble."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monday

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU where Dean is both a hunter and a private investigator, and Cas is his mysterious client. A powerful weapon goes missing, and then hijinks ensue. The plot is based ─ _very loosely_ ─ on the [film version](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Maltese_Falcon_%281941_film%29) of _The Maltese Falcon_. I took a lot of liberties, especially near the end.
> 
> Warnings for violence and alcohol use consistent with canon. There is one on-screen minor character death, but it's quick and not described in any detail.
> 
> This is set in Lawrence for obvious reasons. The geography didn't always cooperate, so I'd like to apologize in advance to anyone who lives there. Police procedure is based on what goes down in the movie; it might not 100% square up with the way things work today.
> 
> Thanks to [Kira](http://karsival.tumblr.com/), [Kora](http://beenghosting.tumblr.com/), and [Mara](http://sunbeamdean.tumblr.com/). Without you, I probably wouldn't have finished this beast.
> 
> [Tumblr post](http://xylodemon.tumblr.com/post/146242780084/deancas-fic-a-reasonable-amount-of-trouble-86k).

This morning's weather report promised that the weekend storm would pass by early afternoon, but it starts raining again while Dean is driving back to his office. Water pours down from a steel-gray sky, hard enough that the Impala's wipers struggle to sluice it off the windshield. The brake lights up ahead are bright, bloody smears. Dean taps his fingers on the steering wheel through the stop-and-go traffic over the river. He hums along with the radio as he chokes down the cup of mud-thick coffee he picked up at a Gas & Sip on his way out of North Lawrence.

Dean's office sits on a corner guarded by a dented mailbox and three newspaper stands, one for the _Lawrence Journal-World_ and two for sleazy personal ads. A week of rain has stained the old bricks a red so dirty it's almost brown, and a puddle has swallowed most of the tiled doorway. The street-front window is cut in half by a pinstriped café curtain that's seen better days. _Winchester & Alastair Investigations_ is painted above it; the gold and black lettering is scratched in spots and peeling in others.

The street parking out front is full, so Dean swings around back and into the dinky lot his building shares with a tattoo parlor and a mallet-and-pliers dentist. The Impala jolts over the pothole in the driveway, spraying gravel and muddy water onto the dentist's dying hedge. The only spot is right beside the overflowing dumpster; the earthy smell of wet pavement barely makes a dent in the stench. Dean tucks his camera under his shirts so it won't get wet and heads inside. The building's ancient heater is chugging away at full blast. Dean is sweating by the time he reaches his office at the end of the hall.

"Maggie Stark called," Kevin says, before Dean is really through the door. He's hunched over his computer and typing a mile a minute. "She wanted to know if you got anything. She's meeting with her lawyer tomorrow."

"Yeah," Dean says, patting his camera through his shirts. "Don finally took the girlfriend out to eat instead of ordering in."

"Cool," Kevin says. He still hasn't stopped typing. "Where'd they go?"

"Applebee's."

Kevin snorts. "Are you kidding?"

"Nope."

"The guy's worth like a billion dollars, and he gets caught having well drinks and two-for-ten appetizers?"

"He was probably trying to lie low. All the ritzy places in town know him and Maggie by name." Dean is still sweating; he shrugs off his wet jacket and hangs it on the stand by the door. "Alastair been in yet?"

"Nope." Kevin pauses, hand frozen over his keyboard as he flips through one of the books stacked at his elbow. "He called about an hour ago. Said he was tying up a loose end on the Cartwright case."

"Right. That wonky contract thing." Alastair had spent fifteen years as a lawyer before boredom nearly killed him. If he wants to go back to drowning in paperwork all day ─ well. Better him than Dean. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. I emailed you a newspaper article. A couple of desecrated graves down in Oklahoma, if you're looking for a weekend job."

Shrugging, Dean says, "Maybe." He hasn't worked too many monster hunts recently. He hasn't really wanted to ─ not since Sam traded in his machete for a shiny badge. Hunting was always the family business. Without his brother, it just isn't the same. "Okay. I'm ─"

"And Lisa stopped by."

Dean's jaw tics. He takes a breath and asks, "Yeah? What, um. What ─ what'd she want?"

"She found a box of your stuff when she was cleaning out her garage. I put it in your office."

"Okay," Dean says tightly. "Great. Thanks."

The box is waiting for him on the wooden chair just inside the door, but Dean gives it a wide berth as he heads for his desk. It's been eight months, long enough that the ache has finally dulled around the edges. But some days it still stings a little. Lisa had tossed him out within weeks of Sam joining the police force; he'd still been licking one wound when another opened up in the middle of his chest. Dean had deserved it with the way he'd been acting ─ drinking too much, coming home late, working a back-to-back string of solo monster gigs. If he could do it over again, he ─ fuck. He doesn't know.

He sinks into his desk chair, grumbling under his breath as it wobbles and creaks. He knows he should probably give Lisa a call. He should at least thank her for bringing his junk by when she could've just put it out with the garbage. But he also knows exactly how it'll go. She'll sigh when she hears his voice. Listen politely when he starts rambling about his latest job. Then she'll say, "Dean, you need to take better care of yourself," and make an excuse to hang up.

Instead, he plugs his camera into his computer and grabs the office bottle from the bottom drawer of his desk. Sighing, he pours himself enough Devil's Cut to get through these pictures. He hates divorce work ─ he always feels like he's peeking in someone's underwear drawer ─ but divorce work covers the bills. Hunting monsters pays exactly squat, and other kinds of PI work have started drying up over the last few years. People don't need to hire a schlub like Dean for two hundred an hour plus expenses when the internet does title searches for free and background checks for five-ninety-nine.

Dean's father had hung out a shingle as a PI after his wife's death. After he found out she'd died in a werewolf attack and not a robbery gone wrong. John had wanted revenge; working for himself instead of punching a clock had given him the freedom to hunt monsters almost full-time. He'd sold the house Mary died in and used the money to buy an old brick building with an office on the ground floor and a two-bedroom loft upstairs. He'd drunk too much. He'd traveled a lot. He'd trained his sons at both jobs, teaching them how to kill monsters with one hand and how to snoop at keyholes with the other.

Out of two dozen pictures, about half are blurry or badly-lit. The rest are pretty decent for snaps Dean had taken half over his shoulder while pretending to eat. He finds five that are really incriminating ─ two of Stark and the girlfriend playing footsie, another of Stark holding the girlfriend's hand, and two more of them disappearing into a room at the Sleep-EZ off US 59. Dean fits some glossy photo paper into his ancient printer and prays for the best. As an afterthought, he emails the whole file to Maggie Stark's lawyer. Mister James Langston Roberts the Third, Esquire, might be willing to shell out for an expert to clean up the fuzzier shots.

Kevin knocks on his door just as the printer is wheezing its way to the finish line. Dean has a mouthful of bourbon, so he cough-grunts an invitation and hopes Kevin can translate. Kevin's shadow lurks behind the frosted glass for a second. Then he creeps inside one piece at a time ─ first his head, then his shoulder, then his arm, then everything else.

"Yeah?" Dean asks.

Kevin quirks an eyebrow at the bottle on Dean's desk. Then he says, "There's a guy here to see you."

"What's his name?"

"He didn't tell me."

"Dude," Dean says slowly. Kevin is a huge improvement over his last office assistant ─ a temp agency nightmare named Becky who'd let the phone ring forever and never remembered to write down important shit like court dates. He knows about the things that go bump in the night, so Dean can rope him into doing research. But he hates talking to the clients. "What am I paying you for?"

Kevin shrugs like he doesn't spend half his day Skyping his girlfriend and writing his thesis on Dean's dime. "I don't know. You're the boss."

"Whatever." Dean sighs and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. "What's he look like?"

Kevin shrugs again. "He's kinda your type. Sex hair, deep voice, perma-stubble. Remember that ─"

"All right, all right," Dean grumbles. He doesn't need any smartass commentary about the bartender he picked up last week. Kevin had caught Donnie sneaking out of the loft on his way upstairs to wake Dean up, and he's been riding Dean about it ever since. "Just send him in. And here ─ " he hands Kevin the photos and a large envelope "─ overnight these to Maggie Stark's lawyer."

Kevin lets himself out without a word. He also doesn't bother to close the door. Dean sighs again and shakes his head. He puts the office bottle back in the drawer and gets Don Stark's creepy pictures off his computer screen. The new client slouches into Dean's office a minute later, and ─ wow. Kevin hadn't been lying. This dude is fucking _gorgeous_.

He has blue eyes and dark hair and a strong jaw that's at least two days past its last shave. He's just about Dean's height. He doesn't say anything after he comes in; he just stands in the middle of Dean's office and stares. His tie is crooked. His dumpy trenchcoat is dry, even though it's still pissing down rain outside. A strange prickle sweeps up the back of Dean's neck. He feels like he knows this guy from somewhere, or that he's at least seen him before. But ─ looking like that ─ Dean also feels like he'd definitely remember.

Finally, Dean clears his throat and sticks out his hand. "Dean Winchester. How can I help you?"

The guy hesitates for a second. Then he shakes Dean's hand and says, "Castiel. My name is Castiel."

"Your parents stop there?"

"Castiel will... suffice for now."

Dean shrugs and says," Suit yourself." Gorgeous or not, he should probably tell this guy to take a hike. The cagey ones usually want Dean to fabricate them an alibi. Or they're looking for someone to deliver a shady package. But something about Castiel is ─ Dean doesn't know. Just _something_. He points at the tan and white armchair in front of his desk. "Have a seat and tell me your story."

Castiel sits ─ gingerly, like he thinks the chair is going to collapse underneath him. He folds his hand in his lap and says, "I just arrived in town. I found your name in the local telephone book."

"Okay." Dean's mouth twitches. Out-of-towners don't usually stumble into his kind of trouble ─ at least not right away. "Where're you from?"

"Illinois. Pontiac, Illinois."

Another chill sweeps over Dean's skin. His dad died in Pontiac, Illinois. Castiel is staring at him again, so he clears his throat and says, "Nice place." He clenches his hands on his desk so he doesn't rub the burn scar on his shoulder. "What brings you to good old Lawrence, Kansas?"

"A month ago, my sister disappeared with a man named Ellsworth. Since then, she hasn't answered my calls. And that's very unlike her. Of all my siblings, Anna is the most conscientious." Castiel pauses for a moment. His throat bobs as he swallows. "I managed to trace their movements here ─ to a cheap motel near the airport. I've seen Ellsworth several times in the last three days, but I haven't seen Anna at all."

"How well d'you know this Ellsworth?" Dean asks.

"Only by reputation. He's dangerous. He ─"

Castiel cuts off as the doorknob rattles and Alastair walks into the office. A wave of his cologne follows him inside. He looks like a drowned rat; his sparse hair is rain-slicked to his forehead and the jacket hanging over his arm is dripping on the carpet. When he sees Castiel, his mouth thins a little. Then he finds a smile and says, "Sorry. Kevin didn't tell me you were with someone."

Dean tells Castiel, "This is my partner, Mark Alastair." The back of his neck is itching again; he scratches it as he gets Alastair up to speed. "Castiel's sister skipped town with a piece of work about a month back. He wants us to track her down."

Alastair makes a noise in the back of his throat. "Interesting."

Dean turns back to Castiel as Alastair settles in at his ─ _Sam's_ ─ desk. "Look, don't take this the wrong way ─ I mean, we're always up for a job. But this doesn't sound like our kinda deal. If she's a legal adult and left with this guy willingly, there ain't much we can do for you."

"And if he forced her to go, that's kidnapping," Alastair points out. His hair is drying into a pair of cowlicks that look like horns. "There's nothing we can do for you there, either. The police ─"

Castiel shakes his head. "I don't want to call the police. Not unless I have to. My family is… important. Our father ─ we don't need a scandal." He sighs quietly. "Ellsworth is dangerous and possible a criminal, but if Anna is happy and safe, I ─ I'll let the matter drop."

"All right," Dean says, leaning back in his chair. "What can we do for you?"

"This morning, I slipped a note under the door of Ellsworth's motel room. I asked him to meet me in the parking lot at eight o'clock." Castiel sighs again and shifts in his chair. "I asked him to bring Anna ─ I just want to see her. He probably won't. In fact, I doubt he'll come at all. But I ─ I just ─"

"You want backup in case he tries something cute."

"Yes."

"That's easy enough," Alastair says. He twirls his pen between his fingers. "I'll be at the motel by... let's say six. I'll be in a tan Lincoln Continental. Late model. It's parked out front if you want to get familiar with it on your way out."

"I will."

"Make sure you're facing it when Ellsworth approaches you. If you feel threatened at any point, or he says anything to suggest your sister is in danger, you ─" Alastair frowns thoughtfully "─ use your left hand to scratch your ear."

"Thank you," Castiel says gravely. "He's staying at the Bel-Aire Motel. It's located at ─"

"Yeah, we know the place," Dean mutters. The Bel-Aire is pretty much a magnet for runaways and deadbeat husbands; he's knocked on every door that flop has at least twice in the last year alone. "What's this Ellsworth character look like?"

"Average height and build. He wears a mustache and a short beard. His hair ─" Castiel touches the back of his neck "─ he keeps it about this length. He always wears an oversized baseball cap."

"Don't worry, Castiel." Alastair smiles and taps his pen against his narrow chin. "We'll take care of it."

"Thank you," Castiel says again. He unfolds a crisp c-note and sets it on Dean's desk. After a brief hesitation, he adds another. Then he stands and turns toward the door. "I appreciate your assistance."

As soon as he's gone, Dean asks Alastair, "What d'you think?"

"A fool and his money," Alastair singsongs. A smile teases the corner of his mouth. "I think this is going to be the easiest five or six hundred bucks we ever make."

"Yeah." Outside, the wind is howling. Rain lashes against the windows. Dean doesn't want to spend three hours staking out a shitty no-tell in a downpour, but he makes himself ask, "Are you sure you wanna go?"

"Absolutely. The wife wants to go to some ballet thing tonight. This gets me out of it."

 

+

 

Alastair heads out about fifteen after five, waving at Dean over his shoulder as he mumbles lame excuses into his phone. Over the hum of the heater, Dean can just pick out the angry rise and fall of his wife's voice. The rain has finally let up a little ─ putting the Bel-Aire twenty minutes from the office instead of forty ─ but Alastair wouldn't be Alastair if he didn't try to chisel the clients for an extra fifty or seventy-five bucks. Dean figures it's a leftover lawyer habit. If Castiel complains, Dean will smooth it over. If he doesn't ─ well. The building's property taxes are due at the end of the month.

At five-thirty, Kevin comes in with a postal receipt for the overnight delivery and a sauerkraut-and-mustard footlong from the Wiener Hut next door to the tattoo place. Silently, he sets both things on Dean's desk. Then he flops into the client chair and stares at Dean like he's trying to see Dean's soul.

"What's this?" Dean asks, poking the hotdog. Kevin's a broke college student and won't let Dean forget it; he can count on one hand the number of times Kevin has bought dinner.

"A bribe," Kevin says flatly. "I need to leave early. My mother got tickets to a book reading in Kansas City. It's Sumerian mythology, and ─"

"Yeah, yeah. Your thesis is on Sumerian mythology."

"Not exactly. It's ─"

Dean waves him off; he doesn't really care. "How early?"

"Like _now_ early."

Dean snorts out a laugh. "Go on, kid. Get outta here."

"Sweet."

"Tell your mom I said hi."

Kevin's mouth twitches as he turns toward the door. About two years ago, Dean had tracked a demon through three meatsuits into the local Hy-Vee. In the meat department, it had hopped into Linda Tran. Dean had dragged her into the stockroom and exorcised her right up against a box of canned beans. Afterward, she'd thanked him for saving her. Then she'd slapped his face for leaving bruises on her arm.

Post-possession, Linda had junked her stuffy accountant set-up and opened a new age shop in the south end of North Lawrence. She sells crystals and incense and tarot cards and dowsing rods. She also sells hunting supplies to people with the right password. If someone comes in with a monster problem, she quietly points them in Dean's direction. She keeps a machete and a rock-salt shotgun next to her cash register. Dean is terrified of her ─ all five-feet-two-inches of her ─ and he isn't ashamed to admit it.

Kevin says, "Yeah, I will," then slips out of the office. Dean snorts out another laugh as he goes.

Sauerkraut dogs taste better when they've sat for a few minutes, so Dean checks his email after he stashes the postal receipt in Maggie Stark's file. He deletes a handful of spam and an E-Vite for a Neighborhood Watch potluck. After that, there's a reply from James Langston Roberts the Third, Esquire, thanking Dean's "establishment" for the "serviceable" photos.

There's also the article Kevin sent about the possible hunt. It's a blurb from the _Bartlesville Examiner-Enterprise_ that takes a full minute to load. Dean skims it, but doesn't tell him much more that Kevin had when he'd said "desecrated graves in Oklahoma." He Mapquests the distance between Lawrence and Bartlesville just for kicks.

His stomach growls. Carefully, he unwraps his hotdog. It has extra sauerkraut ─ enough extra sauerkraut that the rye bun is soggy in spots and starting to tear. It's a mess waiting to happen, so Dean stands and sets his wastebasket on his desk and takes his first bite hunched over it like a gargoyle. It almost tastes like heaven. It could use a little more mustard, but Dean isn't about to walk half a block in the rain to get it.

Through the window, the sky is purple-black and starless. Water is running down the dusty pane in thin, crooked streams. The fire escape ladder is cutting a jagged shadow across the shit on Alastair's desk ─ a book on contract law, the mahogany-and-gold clock his firm gave him as a retirement gift, a silver-framed picture of the wife he never goes home to. His faded green Mr. Rogers sweater is hanging over the back of his chair. A fingerprint of his cologne itches Dean's nose.

The building's heater works double-time downstairs but only pushes the air around upstairs. The loft is probably colder than hell, and Dean's already staring down the barrel of a long, boring night. He could always pop across the street to McGinty's. Grab some nachos and beer before happy hour ends. But McGinty's is kind of a downer on Mondays; the crowd is too thin for a decent pool hustle and the weeknight bartender doesn't like Dean all that much. About three months ago, a schmuck on the wrong side of a divorce job paid Dean back with a right hook to the jaw. Now, Casey cuts Dean off early. If he tries to flirt his way to another shot, she just rolls her eyes and walks away.

He could drive up to the Bel-Aire and see what's cooking with Alastair. But that feels like a waste ─ it's not like Castiel is going to pay them twice for the same bullshit stakeout. Castiel's case is junk anyway. There's nothing there. He'd said his family was important ─ whatever _that's_ supposed to mean ─ but his suit was cheap and his trenchcoat fit him like a potato sack. Dean pegs him as solid middle-class ─ probably religious and definitely repressed. Families like that raise their daughters for white weddings. Castiel is just horrified that his sister ran off to live in sin with a blue-collar stiff.

There's always Bartlesville. On paper, Dean's office is open until seven, but closing early isn't going to cost anything. Not on a night like this. It's too cold and wet for an eleventh-hour client. Bartlesville is less than two hours away; if Dean leaves now, he could be there by nine or nine-thirty. Desecrated graves mean ghouls, and ghouls are amateur hour. And they only cracked open two coffins, so there can't be more than three of them. Probably just two.

For a split-second he flirts with the idea of texting Sam, but he crams the last of his hotdog in his mouth and grabs his keys before he follows through on that thought. Detectives are on call one week out of every month, but Dean never knows which week is Sam's. Even if Sam's off tonight, there's zero chance he'll say yes. He's only hunted once since he started with the police force, and that had been a changeling infestation with a pretty high body-count. Dean had been desperate to get it wrapped up before anyone else died, and Sam has always had a soft spot for kids.

"Fuck it," Dean says, snatching his still-damp jacket off the stand.

He gets why Sam hung up his spurs. Sam had never liked either job. He'd shipped out to Stanford at eighteen to get away from their dad, and he only came back after their dad died because Dean hadn't wanted to hunt alone. Worse, Sam blames himself for his girlfriend's death. The vamp that killed Jess had been a straggler from a nest they cleared out in Topeka; it tracked Sam back to his apartment by scent and caught Jess home alone. She'd never had a chance. The vamp had drained her dry and then ripped out her throat for shits and giggles.

Dean hadn't been there when Sam found her, but he _had_ been there when their dad found their mom. Thirty-three years later he still remembers every detail ─ the stench of blood in the air, the rust-brown handprints smeared on the windowsill, the the ragged wound splitting Mary's chest, the hitch in John's voice when he'd told Dean to get Sam out of his crib and take him outside.

The rain has slowed to a drizzle. The parking lot is jaundiced by the ancient sodium light sagging against the dentist's office. The tarmac is dotted with oily puddles. The flies that usually haunt the dumpster have taken the night off. As the Impala rumbles out onto the street, it treats the dentist's hedge with another fountain of gravel and mud. Dean heads for US 59, stopping at the Fuel & Go crouched alongside the on-ramp. He buys a few Slim Jims for the road and a cup of coffee so thick that chewing it will make his jaw ache before he hits the Oklahoma line.

 

+

 

Dean rolls into Bartlesville just after nine. He pulls off US 75 at the north end of town and heads straight for the bright-white flare of a Gas & Sip. He parks beside the shell of a phone booth, putting the Impala's nose whisper-close to the propane cage. The engine pings a little as he gets out, cranky because the night air is forcing it to cool faster than it wants. He buys another cup of coffee. It doesn't taste much better than the one he just choked down, but at least he doesn't need a knife and fork to drink it.

It's nice enough out ─ Dean left the rain behind somewhere between Cherryvale and Drum Creek ─ so he spends a few minutes leaning against the Impala's trunk. Without the storm fighting them, a handful of stars have managed to burn through the cloud cover. A lazy wind tugs at Dean's collar as he nurses his coffee and searches White Rose Cemetery on his phone. After a quick loading pause, Google Maps coughs up a point southwest of the Gas & Sip, just a block or two below US 60.

White Rose is an older joint, the kind of place that closes at dusk and doesn't bother with a security guard. Its rusty chain-link fence is barely hip-high, and it's drooping in spots from years of people scaling it. A narrow gravel track lines one side of the property. The streets skirting the other three are scattered with houses, but most are showing the cemetery their backs. Just in case, Dean parks at the church a short walk up Virginia Avenue so the Impala doesn't attract unwanted attention.

Ghouls usually go for family vaults because the privacy lets them wine and dine in peace. White Rose doesn't have any; it's all single, in-ground plots. A few have uprights, but most are marked with flat stones. Dean starts on the gravel track since that side of the cemetery is the least inhabited and the worst lit. The crunch of his footsteps slices the silence like a knife. Eventually, he spots the opened graves at the southeast corner of the property ─ two uneven, rounded shadows poking up near the back fence. The staff covered them with dirt over the weekend, but they didn't stamp it down or lay new sod.

An owl hoots over Dean's head. He can't see much of anything, but this end of the cemetery is so dark that his flashlight would light the place up like a signal fire. He looks at the graves again. They're completely out in the open, and a ghoul needs a couple of days to pick a corpse clean. Without a mausoleum to hide in, they would've dragged the bodies somewhere else. Somewhere close.

The owl hoots again. The police tape hanging on the fence flutters with the wind. Dean hears a noise to his left ─ something like a murmur. Cautiously, he inches toward it. Ghouls have good eyesight, but their hearing is average and they have no sense of smell. Dean hears the noise again. After a few more steps, he sees the outline of an old shed behind a thick, overgrown hedge. The shed is sagging to pieces; the wood is rotted and the roof is ready to collapse. The hedge is probably the only thing holding it up. A dull, yellowish light winks at him through a gap in the boards.

Inside, two ghouls are crouched on the dirt floor and working on a pair of corpses. An old hurricane lamp is guttering between them. They're both reanimated as women in their eighties or nineties; they have prim pearl necklaces at their throats and their white hair is swept into buns. Bloodstains darken the front of their flowered church dresses.

A car rattles down the road at the cemetery's north end. Dean freezes, but the ghouls don't look up. Don't stop eating. Once it's quiet again, Dean fits his shotgun into the gap. He takes a breath and clips the closest one right behind the ear.

Her head explodes. The rest of her drops to the dirt like a stone. The other ghoul looks up with a hiss; she has blood on her face and hands, and she shows Dean a mouthful of teeth. He levels his shotgun, but she reels back onto the floor and scrambles into the shadows. He kicks at the space in the boards, trying to widen it without bringing the roof down on his head. The whole place creaks and sways as he squeezes inside. His jeans snag on a nail. Once his eyes adjust, he finds her cowering against the back wall. Blood is running down her chin.

Just as he's lining her up, a cold-hot jolt of _something_ spears through the scar on his shoulder. It winds him worse than a punch to the gut. He doubles over and whines behind his teeth. His shotgun drags in the dirt as he tries to force some air into his lungs.

The ghoul lunges while Dean is still wheezing. She snarls and wraps a waxy hand around his throat. The pressure makes him gasp; his knees buckle and his feet scrabble in the dirt. He grabs her bony wrist to steady himself and jabs his shotgun at her chest. The shot doesn't kill her, but she stumbles back a few paces and that gives Dean enough time to reload. He's shaking too hard for a clean shot. He gets her in the temple instead of between the eyes.

The pain in Dean's shoulder starts to dull. He leans his shotgun against the wall and rubs at his scar. He can't feel the shape of it through his jacket and shirts, but he knows it's there ─ a perfect handprint. It's a souvenir from the night his father died. The only injury he suffered in a fire that gutted a warehouse and burned his father alive.

Rougarous are solitary creatures; John and Dean hadn't expected to find five of them living in the same den. Shocked and outnumbered, they'd been careless with their flamethrowers. By the time the rougarous were dead, the entire building had been blazing. The roof had caved in as they were making their way out, separating them in a wave of heat and sparks and ash. Dean had hit the floor to escape the smoke, but he'd passed out before he found the door or his dad. He woke up the next morning in an alley two blocks from the warehouse. Except for the handprint, he didn't have a scratch.

Dean rubs his scar again. In the last eight years, it's never ached or hurt or itched. Most of the time, he almost forgets that it's there. Almost. He doesn't like things he can't explain.

He burns the bodies in the shed, banking the fire with shovels of dirt so it doesn't start licking up along the walls. The smell is enough to make him gag and the heat has him sweating through his shirts. It's nearly one by the time they finish roasting. Dean briefly considers grabbing a motel, but that's sixty bucks he can't spare. And he wants a shower too badly to crash in the car.

He packs his gear into duffel and walks up Virginia Avenue. He starts the Impala and cuts northeast through Bartlesville until he's back at the Gas & Sip. He buys four more Slim Jims and another cup of coffee. Then he heads north on US 59. The pain in his shoulder is almost gone. If he makes it back to Lawrence by three, he can get four hours of sleep before Kevin pounds on his door.


	2. Tuesday

_The heat is like a blast furnace. Dean's skin is starting to blister. The back of his throat is scorched and raw. The roof groans overhead. The whole building shakes. A rafter shears off with a crack like lightning, crashing down near Dean's feet. Sparks catch in his hair and clothes. Ash billows in his face._

_Everything is smoke. Dean crouches down, sucking in air with his face pressed to the dirty concrete. His lungs burn. His lips are bleeding. His dad shouts, but the thunder-roar of the fire drowns out the words. The roof groans again. Dean crawls forward a little. Gray spots shimmer at the edge of his vision, blurring the orange-red glare of the fire._

_The air shifts beside his ear. Flutters. The searing heat ebbs slightly. A hand grips his shoulder. Someone whispers. Tugs him. He can't move. Sirens are blaring. He can't —_

Dean gasps awake to his phone screaming in his ear. A cold sweat is drying on his skin and his hands are fisted in the sheets. Groaning, he rolls toward his nightstand. His clock tells him it's four fifty-two; he slept for an hour and change.

His phone shrills off mid-ring, but it starts up again a beat later. Dean thumbs it unlocked and grunts, "Yeah?"

"Dean, it's Sam. Are you up?"

"I am now, asshole. D'you know what time it is?"

"Yeah, sorry. It's — it's important."

"Important?" Dean heaves out a noise and rubs his burning eyes. "Someone better be fucking dead."

Sam doesn't say anything. And doesn't say anything. And doesn't say anything. A cold weight churns in Dean's gut; if Sam's trying to be delicate, it's got to be someone close to home. Someone — fuck. _Bobby._ Bobby conned his way into the Douglas County DA's office after a demon knife to the spine cost him the use of his legs. Now he runs the phones for guys playing fed and sends out the monster signal when a suspicious death crosses his desk. He also cleans up the mess when a hunter steps in their own shit, mostly by making in-the-line-of-duty misdemeanors disappear. It's the safer end of things, but hunting is never _safe_. Something he failed to kill back in his glory days must've come home to roost.

Bobby was John Winchester's first hunting contact; he helped John track down the werewolf that killed Mary. He also helped John raise his sons, filling in whenever John had been too busy or too drunk. And that had been more frequently than Dean cares to remember. He thinks he might puke. If —

"Alastair," Sam says finally.

It's the last thing Dean expects. He blinks at the ceiling for a second before asking, "What—? Alastair?"

"Yeah."

"I — I, um." Alastair hadn't texted him last night, but he never did after a job. Not unless he turned up something that couldn't wait until morning. Dean had just figured whatever went down with Castiel had been a cakewalk. Or that Castiel had been a no-show. "He — was he shot?"

"No, he wasn't shot."

"Then how?"

Sam sighs. Through the phone, the sound rattles in Dean's ear like laundry on a clothesline. "He — look, can you come up here? I'm at the Bel-Aire."

"Yeah." Dean sits up and swings his feet off the bed. The floorboards are like ice cubes. The sliver of sky peeking between the curtains has barely begun to bruise. "Gimme thirty, thirty-five."

"So… forty?"

Dean says, "Fuck you," and hangs up.

He stills feels a little sleep-drunk, so he sits on the edge of his bed for a minute. He stares at the dusty floor while he waits for his brain to start firing on all cylinders. Taps his phone against his thigh. If Sam's at the Bel-Aire, that means Alastair's body is there, too. His wife won't be notified until after he's been bagged up and shipped off to the coroner. That could take hours. Once the sun rises, she'll spend all of it leaving Dean angry voicemails because Alastair hasn't come home yet. Sighing, he thumbs his phone awake and dials Kevin.

It rings four times. Then Kevin picks up and whines, "Are you fucking kidding me? It's —"

"Shut up and listen," Dean cuts in. His knees pop as he stands. "Alastair's dead."

"What?"

"Alastair. Dead."

Kevin just breathes at him for a few seconds. "How?"

"I don't know. Sam just called me about it. I'm headed up there now. You gotta tell Lilith."

"Coward."

"Yep," Dean admits. Lilith hates his guts. She blames him for Alastair's long PI nights and his shitty PI paychecks, like Dean had begged him to quit his cushy nine-to-five at the law firm. Like Alastair hadn't spent two months duffing around on his savings accounts before scratching at Dean's door for a job. "Look, I — just call her. Then go back to sleep and come into the office when you wake up again. I'll leave a note on the door that says we're opening late."

Kevin grunts out, "Yeah," and hangs up.

Dean starts a pot of coffee. He uses the Starbucks French Roast Sam's partner gave him for Christmas because the heartburn might help him stay awake. What's left of his forty minutes doesn't really leave him enough time for a shower, but he takes one anyway. He's itchy from night-sweating, and last night's six-hour flip-flop to Oklahoma has wrapped a dull ache around his spine. Afterward, he pulls on a reasonably clean pair of jeans and throws a fresh flannel over yesterday's t-shirt. The coffee looks and smells like tar. He pours it into an empty Fuel & Go cup he finds sitting on his kitchen counter.

The note he sticks on the front door says, "Opening late because of bereavement." The note he sticks on the back door catches the wind, rips loose, and air-surfs toward the tattoo place. The rain stopped overnight, but the parking lot still looks and feels damp. The two guys who clean the dentist's office once a week are sneaking cigarettes under the sodium light, shivering as smoke clouds around their heads. Dean left his jacket inside, but getting into the car is faster and easier than going back upstairs. By the time he hits US 59, the sky is an ugly, livid purple.

Sam gives it forty-four minutes before he starts texting. Dean's already over the river by then; instead of replying, he just leans on the gas until the Bel-Aire comes into view. The parking lot is a clusterfuck of people and the driveway is blocked by the coroner's meatwagon. Dean stashes the Impala at the greasy spoon across the street and jaywalks to the crime scene like five hundred cops aren't watching him do it. Sam's waiting for him, his shoulders hunched impatiently and his Columbo coat flapping against his legs. He waves off the beat cop who tries to stop Dean from ducking under the police tape.

Dean grins and tugs Sam's lapel. "Looking good, Detective Winchester. Where's Jody?"

"She's —" Sam pauses as a pair of forensics guys slink by. "She's working another angle. You look terrible. Rough night?"

"You know me. I like to party."

Sam sighs and gestures over his shoulder. "Come on."

The Bel-Aire is a snake of twenty-four seedy rooms with a check-in office at the head and a meningitis swimming pool at the tail. A narrow brick path cuts the snake in half. It leads to the service track that runs behind the rooms, and the alley it makes houses a bank of vending machines and an Employees Only laundry area. Alastair is sprawled out in front of the ice hopper. A sheet has been thrown over him, but Dean recognizes his tired loafers.

He also recognizes the rotten-egg hint in the air. Wrinkling his nose, he says, "Dude. You smell that?"

"Yeah," Sam says, nodding. "We're lucky this place is such a dump. Everyone thinks the sewer lines are backed up."

After a quick glance over his shoulder, Dean hisses, "Demons?"

Sam opens his mouth. Closes it. Then his throat works as he swallows what he almost said. He crouches beside Alastair's body and pulls the sheet down to his neck.

Alastair's eyes have been burned right out of their sockets. The skin around his nose and mouth is singed, like whatever did this scorched him from the inside out. Faint bruises mottle his throat. A handful of sulfur dusts the collar of his coat. The smell is fighting against a stiff dose of Taylor of Old Bond Street.

"What the fuck? That's —"

"Yeah." Sam covers Alastair's face again and stands. "Sulfur means demons, but I've never seen a demon kill like that. They usually just —" Frowning, he twists his hands like he's snapping a neck.

"Right, yeah," Dean says. He sighs and rubs his hand over his face. "Who found him?"

"A guest. She came out to get a soda about one."

"Anybody hear anything?"

Sam snorts. A cockroach is scaling the wall just above his head. "What do you think?"

"And lemme guess, the manager _stepped out_ right about that time."

"Of course he did. Lester's —" Sam waits as an airplane thunders over the motel. "Lester's out of his office more than he's in. That's what makes this place so popular with the wildlife." Sam's phone buzzes; he checks the message and types out a quick reply. Then he asks, "Was Alastair working on anything?"

"Yeah. He — tail job."

"Who hired him?"

Something itches under Dean's skin. Something soft and warm but also electric and bright. It makes him hesitate.

"Look, I'm not trying to crowd you," Sam insists. He leans his shoulder against the wall. "I know PI clients have privileges. You _know_ I know that. But this isn't — if this is monster stuff, we —"

"No, I know," Dean says. Sam's right. And Dean _knows_ Sam's right. He just — fuck. For some reason, he wants to talk to Castiel first. "I just — it was Alastair's gig. I'm up to my neck in the Stark divorce."

Sam winces a little. "Yeah, I've heard that's getting ugly." He pauses and splits a frown between Dean and Alastair's body. "Do you know _who_ he was tailing?"

"Yeah. Some clown named Ellsworth."

Sam looks at him sharply. "Ellsworth?"

"Yeah. He — wait. Lemme guess. That's the _other angle_ Jody's working on."

"Yeah. Joseph Ellsworth. He bit it in one of the rooms."

"And is he —?" Dean vees his fingers and gestures at his eyes.

"Yep." Sam says. After an awkward pause, he asks, "Where were you last night?"

"C'mon, Sammy. I —"

"You know I've got to ask. If I don't, Jody will. She already knows you weren't home."

"She —"

"We got the call about this around two. The uniforms had already ID'd him. Since he was your partner, we stopped by your place to see if you wanted to ride along. You didn't answer."

"You missed me by an hour," Dean says, pinching the bridge of his nose. An exhaustion headache is throbbing in his temples. "I popped down to Oklahoma to gank a coupla ghouls."

"Without Alastair?"

Dean blinks at him. "He — Alastair didn't hunt."

"What?" Sam asks. He sounds horrified. "You — have you been working alone all this time?"

Dean shrugs. Two or three weeks after Sam left, Dean had hired a hunter named Rudy. But he'd turned out to be lousy at both jobs, so Dean had let him go before the month was out. After that he'd hired Jo. She'd been younger than he was comfortable with — barely twenty-five — but she'd been a damn good hunter and she'd been willing to learn how to snoop. About two months in, her mother decided to get back on the road; Jo had headed back to Nebraska so they could hunt as a team. Alastair came in looking for a job a few weeks later. He'd had decent PI instincts but he'd been out of the monster loop. Dean never got around to letting him in.

"Since Jo, yeah," he says finally. He shrugs again. "It's not a big deal. If I get into something really hairy, I call Lee or Garth."

"Damn it, Dean. You —"

Dean waves him off. "Look, I gotta get back to the office. Kevin already wants my head for waking him up at ass o'clock."

 

+

 

The greasy spoon is a squat little place called Mabel's. The brown leather booths are shiny from thirty years of truckers' asses, and the green and white curtains are thin and faded from the sun. Dean thanks the staff for not towing the Impala by coming in for breakfast. He sits with his back to the window so he doesn't get caught up watching the circus over at the Bel-Aire. He orders a country-fried steak with scrambled eggs and hashbrowns. He gets a short stack on the side. He takes his time eating it because something doesn't feel right.

Demons don't need a reason to kill people. Maybe Alastair was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe he settled in for his stakeout right next to a room some demons were using for a party. And maybe the demons got tired of the bedbugs and moved out to the parking lot to make their noise. It's not half bad for a morning-after breakfast theory, except for the part where the demons nabbed one of the two guys in Lawrence who shares an office with a hunter.

Dean hates coincidences. Demons picking Alastair out of a hat is one. Those same demons also killing Ellsworth is another. Maybe Alastair and Ellsworth were chatting when the demons turned up. Maybe they snuffed Alastair and then chased Ellsworth back into his room. But Ellsworth should've been chatting with Castiel. Alastair should've been in his car.

And his car is missing. Dean hadn't noticed it when he first got to the Bel-Aire; there's been too much going on. He might not have noticed at all, but he'd spent ten minutes pacing the Bel-Aire's parking lot while waiting for a traffic window that would let him jaywalk back across the highway. The Continental is an unregistered piece Alastair picked up while tailing a child-support dodger from Lawrence to Mason City. The police wouldn't have impounded it because there's nothing connecting him to it.

Marcy bustles up to his table with a coffee pot cocked at her hip. "You need a refill, hon?"

"Make it to-go," Dean says. He's already halfway out of his skin with jitters, but it's looking like it's going to be a long day. "And box me up a big slice of apple pie."

"It's too early for that."

"It's never too early."

She sighs indulgently. A pen is speared through her bright red bun. "You in trouble again?"

"Me? No way." Dean winks at her. "What makes you think that?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe 'cause you stopped by this town's favorite crime scene before sunrise?"

"Nah," Dean says, shaking his head. "I was just in the neighborhood. Make it two slices of pie. I can't go back to the office empty-handed."

Traffic is stop-and-go over the river. Everyone is plugging along just slow enough that Dean has time to peck out a text to Kevin asking for the name of Castiel's motel. The sun has finally climbed into the sky, but clouds are gathering on the horizon. It'll be raining again by late afternoon. Dean turns on the radio and spins the knob until he finds some Zeppelin. He hums _Gallows Pole_ under his breath and drums his fingers on the steering wheel. Kevin gets back to him just as he's closing in on the office.

The street parking out front is full again, so Dean pulls around back. The lot is empty now aside from the dentist's elderly minivan and a charcoal Prius that's been lurking beside the dentist's hedge for two straight days. Dean thinks it belongs to one of the tattooists, but since it's a hybrid he's tempted to have it towed on principle. Creedence comes on the radio; instead of going inside, Dean leans back in his seat and dials the number for Castiel's motel.

The Glen Capri's phone rings six times. Then a chick sighs out, "Motel," in the tiredest voice Dean has ever heard.

"Yeah, I need room fourteen."

She pauses for a second. Dean hears a faint clicking — fake fingernails against a computer keyboard — then, "Fourteen checked out."

Dean's pretty sure he knows the answer. Still, he asks, "This morning?"

"Yeah. Early."

"Dark hair and blue eyes? Trenchcoat?"

"Something like that."

Dean swallows a sigh. He mutters, "Thanks," as he's hanging up and kills the Impala's engine.

When he gets inside, Kevin is on the office phone. He lines Dean up with an evil eye and says, "Yes, Mrs. Alastair. Absolutely, Mrs. Alastair." He's holding the receiver with both hands. His knuckles are white. "I'll have him call you as soon as he gets in."

She slams the phone down so hard that Kevin jumps and drops the receiver. He blinks for a second. Shakes his head like a dog with water in its ear.

"Sorry," Dean says.

"That's like the fifth time she's called."

"Yeah, well, until she loses her voice or I figure this out, I ain't here."

Kevin stares at him. Then he asks, "How did he die?"

"Demons."

"That's... what —? Why would demons kill Alastair?"

"No fucking clue," Dean says, rubbing his temples. His head is pounding. "They wasted his tail-job, too."

"Jesus Christ. What about the other guy? The —" Kevin waves his hand "— you know. Trenchcoat McSex-Hair."

Dean rolls his eyes. "He checked outta his motel. I think he stole Alastair's car, 'cause it — wait. You got the details on that heap?"

"Maybe." Kevin rolls his chair back and opens the top drawer of his desk. He digs around until he turns up an orange post-it with Alastair's chicken-scratch on it. "Yeah. Iowa plates. B-2-6-7-6."

"All right. Start calling the flops in this town. Ask 'em if that junker's in their parking lot."

Kevin tries the evil eye again. "That sounds like Donna's department."

"Yeah," Dean says slowly. Donna's a weekend hunter and head of parking enforcement at Lawrence PD. Between her red-light cams and her army of meter jockeys, she can find a car anywhere in the city in under an hour. "But she likes to talk, and I don't need this getting back to Sam. I'm withholding evidence all over the place."

"Oh. Well." Kevin's voice is flatter than a pancake. "I guess it's a good thing I already called your lawyer."

"What?" Dean asks. The DA's office is a little slow on the uptake; he figures he's got about three days before Henriksen crawls up his ass. If he can fabricate something believable between now and then, he won't need a lawyer. "Why'd you do that?"

Kevin hands him a giant envelope. "Because you're being sued."

Dean barks out a laugh — it's either that or scream. The return address is for a Mara Daniels on Massachusetts Street, which makes Dean groan under his breath. Daniels, Daniels & Daniels is the only outfit in town that charges more than James Langston Roberts the Third, Esquire. Dean stares at the envelope for a few more seconds. Then he rips off the flap and pulls out the complaint.

"Don Stark?" Kevin asks.

"Yep. He's saying those pics I took invaded his privacy."

"Lame."

"Jesus Christ," Dean mutters. "Look at this thing. Three people work in this office and she included a hundred Does." Sighing, he flips to the middle of the complaint. "This Mara chick must get paid by the hour _and_ the page. She wrote a separate cause of action for each pic."

"Anything to it?"

"No way. A restaurant's a public place." Dean tosses the complaint on Kevin's desk. "I bet Daniels moved to suppress and got denied. This is just a stall. Maggie can't use those pics against Stark until this is settled."

"Aaron's in court all day today. He said he could fit you in tomorrow afternoon. You want me to call him back?"

Dean sighs again. He — fuck. He doesn't know. Aaron isn't a chiseler, but he's still pretty expensive. And this is some civil bullshit, so Bobby can't make it disappear. Dean's picked up enough law over the years that he could probably piece together a decent motion to dismiss; he just doesn't have the time. Roberts the Third might help him out if he put the request through Maggie, but he hates owing rich assholes a favor.

"Lemme think about it. I'm going upstairs."

Kevin glares at Dean like he's trying to decide where to bury his body. "Is that a joke?"

"Look, kid. If I don't crash for an hour or two my head's gonna explode." Dean hands Kevin the bag from Mabel's. "Eat some of this pie. Come get me if you find Alastair's car."

 

+

 

Dean jolts awake to someone banging on his door. His headache is still going strong, so it sounds like they're using a battering ram. His phone isn't on the nightstand. According to his clock it's eleven thirty-seven. He slept for a little over two hours. At this rate, he'll get a full forty winks banked by the end of the week.

The banging continues. Dean heaves himself up with a grunt. He sits on the edge of his bed while he waits for his pulse to come down, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. His back aches. His stomach is pissed off about all the coffee he's had in the last eighteen hours. He rolls his shoulders and scrubs at his hair. Down on the street, a car blares its horn.

The banging stops. Then it starts up again. Louder. Sighing, Dean stands and shuffles out of his bedroom. He figures it's just Kevin, so he doesn't bother bringing a knife. He also doesn't bother throwing a pair of jeans over his boxer-briefs.

It's Jody Mills.

"Morning, Winchester," she says brightly. "Can I come in?"

"I ain't decent."

She rolls her eyes and nudges her way through the door. "I was married once. Nothing you're packing is going to surprise me."

"Suit yourself," Dean says, glancing around. He hopes nothing freaky is sitting out. His weapons and lore books are in Sam's old room, but that door is closed and locked. If she tries to get in there, he'll make her come back with a warrant. That would give him about a day to move everything into one of his lockups. "You want a beer?"

"No thanks. Technically, I'm on the clock."

"Well, I haven't had lunch yet, so if you don't mind..."

She quirks an eyebrow. "Suit yourself."

Dean edges past her and heads into what passes for the loft's kitchen. It's wedged tightly between the bedrooms and pushed up against the naked brick of the back wall. The curtains are open, but the pressing clouds are heavy enough that the rectangle of light hitting the sink is a watery gray-white. Dean snags a beer from the fridge and pops the cap. He uses the first mouthful to chase two aspirin.

When he turns around, he finds Jody sitting in the only chair he's not using as a laundry hamper. His forty-five is lying on the coffee table amid a forest of empty beer bottles. Its nickel plating glints in the dim light like an accusation. He pauses. The floor creaks under his feet where the kitchen's linoleum lips into the living area's scuffed hardwood.

Jody nods at the gun and asks, "Is that yours?"

"I'm licensed."

"I'm just surprised you leave it out."

"My partner just got iced. Excuse me if I'm kinda jumpy."

She doesn't say anything, so Dean decides to let that simmer. He perches on the arm of the couch with one leg bent and one foot on the floor. Thankfully, his boxer-briefs behave themselves. Jody wastes the next two minutes of her life watching him drink his lunch. The last time they butted heads, her hair had been dark brown. She must've dyed it recently because now it's hinting at auburn.

Finally, she asks, "Where were you last night?"

"Not here."

"I know that much."

"I was out," Dean says, resting his beer on his knee. The condensation on the bottle chills his skin. "Drinking."

"On a Monday night?"

Dean shrugs. "I was sad. My girlfriend dumped me."

"That was months ago," Jody points out. "That either makes you a hopeless romantic or a liar."

A car coughs to life down in the parking lot. Dean shrugs again and says, "Dealer's choice."

"Winchester, you —"

Dean waves her off. "Look. Kevin and Alastair both split early last night. I got bored, so I came up here, had some dinner, and crashed for a coupla hours. I woke up lonely." He lets a smile tug at his mouth. "I hit the bar and had a few drinks and made a friend."

"Okay," Jody says slowly. "Your friend... does she have a name?"

"If he did, I didn't catch it."

Jody leans back in her chair and gives him another eyebrow. "You went to The Bulge?"

"Yep."

"All right." Her voice is kind of brittle around the edges, but it's irritation, not judgement. Lawrence is conservative enough that the gay spots in town have a dicey history with the law. Beating the bushes at the The Bulge would be a waste of time. The people there would gnaw off a foot before talking to the police. "Tell me about the guy."

"My height. Dark hair and blue eyes. Good jaw." Dean smiles again and puts a leer in his voice. "You wanna —"

"I just ate," Jody deadpans. She leans her elbow on the arm of her chair. "How long did you stay?"

"Last call."

"And then you found a motel?"

"The Sleep-EZ, yeah."

Jody chews on that for a few seconds. Then she says, "The Sleep-EZ is five blocks from the Bel-Aire. You showed up an hour after Sam called you."

"Well, I took a shower. And I hadn't slept much, so I stopped for a cup of coffee. And then — oh, yeah. I'd just heard my partner got snuffed. Maybe I needed a minute to wrap my head around that."

"Sam says you didn't like him."

"No, I didn't," Dean admits. Alastair had been a decent enough PI, but he'd had a mean streak and a nasty sense of humor. He'd ogled Lisa when she still came around. He'd treated Kevin like a servant. He'd worked a few cases that had felt questionable in a way Dean could never quite pinpoint. "He was a dick. He — we never really clicked. He wasn't —"

"He wasn't Sam."

That one goes in like a knife. Instead of acknowledging it, Dean asks, "Where is Sam, anyway?"

Jody sighs quietly. "He's down at the DA's office, trying to convince Henriksen that working his brother's partner's murder isn't a conflict of interest."

"How's that going for him?"

"Not well. You know how Henriksen is."

Dean grunts out a noise. Victor Henriksen is a good DA, but he's also a world-class pain in the ass. And he's the only person in Lawrence who hates Dean more than Alastair's wife. A couple of years ago, the City Bank Lawrence got robbed by an inside crew. They lined up a patsy so they could get away clean, and Henriksen fell for it so hard he'd charged the guy and tried to talk him into a plea deal. He hadn't been thrilled when Dean showed up at his office to tell him he had it all sideways.

Jody sighs again. Her chair squeaks softly as she crosses her legs. They listen to the bathroom sink drip for a minute: _plink-plink-plink._ Dean drains his beer and heads back into the kitchen. He sets his dead soldier on the counter and grabs two new recruits from the fridge. On his way back, he rescues his phone from a laundry pile on the other end of the couch. His head still hurts. He has five voicemails from Sam.

He offers Jody one of the beers. She barely hesitates before taking it. As he's settling back on the arm of the couch, he says, "So, tell me about Alastair. How'd I kill him?"

Jody replies, "Preliminary reports are inconclusive." Dean snorts — that means the coroner has no fucking clue — and Jody shoots him a dirty look. "Off the record, Doc's thinking some kind of acid. She's still waiting on tissue samples."

"All right," Dean says, tapping his phone against his thigh. "How about this: _why'd_ I kill him?"

"The rumor is he was skimming. Charging two-fifty an hour and pocketing the difference."

It's possible; Alastair had liked money. Most PI clients pay in cash, and Alastair had done all the paperwork on jobs he worked alone. Still, Dean asks, "Where'd you get that yarn?"

"Inside sources."

"Like _inside_ inside?" When Jody doesn't deny it, Dean whistles through his teeth. "C'mon, Mills. I've never known you to listen to jailbird songs. Who is it?"

"You know I can't tell you that."

"Yeah, all right. Can you tell me about Ellsworth?"

Jody drums her fingers on the arm of the chair. "What about him?"

"I know he died the same way. With the —" Dean wags a finger at his eyes. "Let's say Alastair _was_ shorting me. Let's say I offed him for it. If that floats Henriksen's boat — fine. But there's nothing connecting me to Ellsworth. I never met the guy."

"Let's say he was a witness. Let's say he caught you killing Alastair and you didn't want any loose ends."

Dean takes a long pull from his beer. Then he rolls the bottle against his aching forehead and says, "That's pretty thin."

"Well, _thin_ is all we've got," Jody snaps. She narrows her eyes. "You won't give us Alastair's client, so —"

"Okay, Mills. This has been fun, but I got work to do." Dean slides to his feet and snatches his jeans off the back of the couch. "Drink your beer and get out."

Jody tips her head back and unloads her beer in four long swallows. Then she stands and sets the bottle on the coffee table, right beside Dean's forty-five. The bathroom sink drips some more. Dean's phone buzzes with a text from Kevin. Jody straightens her coat and walks to the door, but she doesn't let herself out. Instead, she turns around and leans back against the jamb.

She says, "Listen, Winchester. I wasn't thrilled when they put me with your brother. It's no secret Bobby Singer greased some wheels to get him into homicide so quickly. And I didn't want to housebreak a former PI. But he — I was wrong about him. He's very good at his job. I like him. I like working with him."

Something in her tone suggests "like" is an understatement, but Dean lets it go. His brain is still sleep-fogged and he hasn't put his jeans on yet. That's not a conversation he wants to have in his underwear. "Okay. What's that gotta do with me?"

"I don't think you did this. But I _do_ think you're hiding something. And I think Sam will stick his neck out until it breaks if he thinks he can help you."

"Just —" Dean looks up at the ceiling and heaves out a sigh. He really thought he'd have more time. "Just gimme another day, all right?"

"All right, Winchester. One day."

After she goes, Dean slouches into the bathroom to piss and slap some water on his face. He could use a shave, but he only gets as far as staring at himself in the mirror for a minute before shrugging and walking back out to the living area. He checks the text from Kevin. It says, "Got him." He throws a flannel over his t-shirt and brews another pot of heartburn coffee. Its thick, tarry smell slowly fills the kitchen. When it's finished, Dean pours it into the same Fuel & Go cup he used this morning and heads downstairs.

Kevin's in thesis mode; he has three books open on his desk and he's typing like he's trying to break a land-speed record. A styrofoam clamshell of Korean barbecue is waiting stinkily at his elbow. He looks up as Dean is closing the door and rolls his eyes.

"It lives."

Dean helps himself to a chunk of the barbecue. Chewing, he asks, "What's up?"

"A guy named Wes Mondale came in. Forties, glasses, bad comb-over. He wants you to track down his high school crush. He didn't say why."

"Sounds creepy," Dean says, shaking his head. "Lose his number. What about Castiel?"

"He's at the Starlite. Room eight."

 

+

 

The Starlite is a no-tell off I-70, far enough to the east that it's practically kissing the Lawrence city limits. It charges fifty a night, but it also has an off-book hourly rate for drunks and cheaters willing to pay in cash. It takes Dean almost thirty minutes to get there because an overturned semi has the hammer lane closed for a three-mile stretch near the water treatment plant. Dean chews his lip and hums _And Justice for All_ as he waits for orange-vested KDOT guys to move a hundred broken crates of peaches off the highway. Anxiety hammers in his chest. His eyes feel gritty and raw.

He looks at the duffel hiding in the passenger-side footwell. He packed two rock-salt shotguns, a box of extra rounds, a jug of holy water, an iron crowbar, and an assortment of silver knives. He also has a demon-killing shank Sam picked up when they busted a coven of overachieving kitchen witches in Duluth. It seems like too much, but it probably isn't enough. Dean can't swallow Alastair and Ellsworth getting snuffed out of sheer shitty luck. It all points to Castiel, and a demon who can burn people from the inside-out isn't something Dean's in a hurry to tangle with.

The sky finally breaks as Dean is swinging into the Starlite's parking lot. The rain starts out easy, barely enough to mist the Impala's windshield. Potholes pockmark the tarmac. The Impala rattles over three just getting in the driveway. The Starlite is a double-decker dump with ten street-facing rooms on each floor. Room eight is on the west end, closer to the vending machines than the office. Dean pulls into a spot two spaces down from Alastair's Continental. He grabs his duffel and climbs out into the drizzle. The brick path lining the rooms is littered with cigarette butts and choked with weeds.

He listens at Castiel's door. He doesn't hear anything but his own heart; it sounds like it's beating in his throat. He leans back and shoots a sideways glance at the office. He could try strong-arming the manager into giving him a key with his PI license and blackmail threats about prostitutes and drug deals. But his chances are only sixty-forty, and he doesn't want to make a scene. He can't afford to make a scene. He figures Henriksen is chewing his nails right now, just waiting for Dean to start a bar fight or run a red light.

An old guy in khakis and a ratty sweater slouches out of room seven and heads for the vending machines. Once he's gone, Dean slips his tension wrench and pick into Castiel's lock. Its innards are smooth and loose from being turned a million times. The pick keeps slipping over the tumblers and refusing to catch. So much for the element of surprise. Gritting his teeth, he swaps his pick for a three-quarters rake and tries again. The lock pops just as the old guy is shuffling back with his Dr. Pepper.

Castiel isn't there. Dean locks the door behind him — it won't give him a lot of warning, but something is better than nothing. He sets his duffel on the table and pulls out the crowbar and a couple of the knives. Then he checks out the room. Balding, powder blue carpet creeps across the floor and blue-striped wallpaper sags on the walls. Navy blue bedspreads cover both beds; they're dotted with yellow and white stars. Neither bed has been slept in. Dean doesn't see any luggage. No McDonald's bags or beer cans. The fridge in the kitchenette is empty. The toilet lid is down; a handful of dingy towels are still folded on top. The room key is lying on the nightstand.

Dean doesn't smell sulfur. He does smell something else — ozone laced with fresh-cut grass. It's warm. Pleasant. But it feels wrong in a place that should reek of stale cigarettes and sex. Dean palms the key. He needs to salt the door and windows. He should probably call Sam. He —

Something rustles behind him. It's a strange sound, like the air is being ripped in half. Dean's skin crawls. He whirls around and whips his forty-five out of his jeans.

"Dean Winchester," Castiel says. He's in the same cheap suit and dumpy trenchcoat he'd worn in Dean's office. His tie is still crooked and his eyes are still incredibly blue. "I didn't expect you to seek me out. Although —" He pauses, his head almost tipping to the side. "I'm not surprised."

"You shouldn't be," Dean says. Fear-sweat is beading on his forehead. It runs down his temples and stings his eyes. "You killed my partner."

"Yes, I did."

Dean glances at his duffel. The table is about a foot behind Castiel; he'll never get to it in time. "Who are you?"

"I told you. My name is Castiel."

"Okay. _What_ are you?"

"I'm an angel of the Lord."

Dean chokes out a strangled laugh. "Get the hell outta here. There's no such thing."

Castiel's eyes narrow slightly. A burst of white-hot _something_ explodes in Dean's shoulder — just like last night, but stronger. Brighter. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and Dean sucks in a shaky breath. The windows rattle and the walls creak. The star-shaped light above Dean's head explodes in a shower of glass and sparks. Slowly, shadows crest behind Castiel's back. Sweat drips off Dean's chin as they unfurl into wings.

"You — some angel you are," Dean manages. His throat feels like sandpaper. He doesn't remember dropping his gun, but it's lying on the floor between his feet. "You burned Alastair's eyes out."

Castiel studies Dean for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then he sits on the bed closest to the door and says, "Alastair was a demon."

"What —? No. He —"

"Alastair was a demon," Castiel insists, an angry edge to his voice. His wings are gone, but Dean can still sense them, an elephant in the room. "As was Ellsworth."

"So that story you gave me? That was bunk?"

"Yes. I do have a sister named Anna, but I haven't seen her in almost a decade."

Dean's legs feel weak. He sits on the other bed and rubs his hand over his face. He doesn't bother grabbing his gun; it's not like it'll do him any good. "I don't get it. Why the front?"

Castiel pauses again. Then he says, "I knew there were two demons in this city. I tracked Ellsworth to his motel, but I couldn't find the other. After I killed him, I discovered Alastair carried a hex bag that prevented me from locating him through celestial means."

"Sandalwood," Dean mutters, shaking his head. "I thought it was cologne."

Castiel nods. "He did wear it, likely to cover the sulfur smell. I assume he chose that scent because it corresponded with the contents of the hex bag." The bed whines as he stands. "I came to your office because you're a hunter. I'd hoped you'd seen something that would point me toward the second demon."

"Buddy, that story you were telling wasn't gonna get you anywhere."

"I was... uncertain about revealing myself," Castiel says, moving to the table. "Angels haven't openly walked the earth in two thousand years." He studies the stuff laid out beside Dean's duffel for a moment, palming the crowbar's hook and running his fingers over the grip of the longest knife. "I intended to look into your mind, but —"

"Hey, no. No way," Dean says, getting to his feet. Anger roils in his gut. "Mind-reading is not cool. You can't just —"

"I didn't. Alastair interrupted me before I had the chance. Once we were face to face, the hex bag was of no use to him. I saw his true form. I persisted with my story so I could lure him to Ellsworth's motel and... kill two birds with one stone. I —"

"Just shut up a second," Dean snaps, throwing up his hands.

His headache is back. His temples are throbbing, and it feels like someone is drilling for oil at the base of his skull. He goes into the kitchenette, cracks open the honor bar, and snatches up two mini-bottles of rotgut whiskey. He chases the first one with the second. They both go down like turpentine. The burn is so bad he has to breathe through his nose for a few seconds to keep them from coming back up

When he turns around, Castiel is still there. It seems like his wings are hovering around the edges of the room. Dean scrubs at his hair and says, "You left a huge fucking mess behind."

"I know. I —" A muscle tics in Castiel's jaw. "Ellsworth was nothing, just a common demon. But Alastair — he was stronger than I anticipated. Far stronger. There's a spell that will force an angel from its vessel. Few demons can work it, but Alastair came close. I managed to overpower him, but it left me weak."

"So... what—? You had to go somewhere and recharge your battery?"

"Essentially, yes. I was unable to fly, so I stole Alastair's car and returned to my motel. Once I'd rested, I went back to the Bel-Aire, but by that point the police had arrived."

"Yeah, well, you — wait. Vessel?" Dean waves his hand around. "Is that — you're possessing some poor bastard?"

Castiel hesitates. A strange look crosses his face. Then, quietly, he says, "Jimmy was a devout man. He prayed for this."

" _Was_? He's dead?"

"Yes."

"How?"

Castiel looks away. "It's not of import."

"You know what? Never mind." Dean stoops and grabs his gun. He walks over to the table, stuffs the weapons in his duffel, and zips it closed. Castiel is right beside his shoulder; the smell of ozone and fresh-cut grass is stronger and warmer. Dean clears his throat. "I'm not buying what you're selling. Demons, hex bags, mind-reading, angel vessels — whatever you are, you killed two people and the police are trying to pin it on me."

"Dean —"

"Save it. I'm outta here."

Just as Dean reaches for the doorknob, Castiel says, "Eight years ago, an archangel gave me a mission. I came to earth and took this vessel. I failed the mission, and the archangel obliterated me as punishment." Pausing, he moves closer to Dean — close enough that Dean can feel the heat of him against his back. "God brought me back. I don't know why. But this vessel — it's mine."

Dean turns around. His gear clanks as his duffel bounces between his hip and the door. "Why'd you change motels?"

"I knew the police would look for me. I hoped if they couldn't find me it would just become a... cold case."

Dean huffs out a rough noise. "No dice. I told you: they're trying to pin it on me."

"I can deal with that. I just need a few days to —"

"Damn it, Castiel. I don't _have_ a few days." Dean pushes away from the door and puts himself right in Castiel's face. "In a few days I might already be in the cooler."

"Dean, I said I'd deal with it. But I need time. There's something else I must do first."

"Something else," Dean mutters. He clenches his hands at his sides. "Like what?"

"It doesn't concern you. But it's important. _Grievously_ important. Please trust me."

"Why?" Dean asks, his voice half a whisper. He's so fucking tired. "Why should I?"

Castiel touches Dean's shoulder, pressing his palm right over the scar. A slow shiver curls up Dean's spine.

"Because I'm asking you to."

Dean opens his mouth. He starts to say, "It's not that easy." Or, "It doesn't work that way." But the words stick in his throat. Castiel just stares at him. The space between them is heavy and charged, arcing like a live wire. Heat burns in Dean's cheeks and jaw. Castiel's mouth parts. Dean nearly jumps out of his skin when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

It's Sam, asking Dean to meet at Bobby's as soon as possible.

"I gotta go," Dean says, shrugging away from Castiel's hand. "You'd better still be here when I get back."

 

+

 

Bobby's house lurks on what's left of an auto salvage yard. It's way up US 59, right about where North Lawrence blurs into Midland. Bobby stopped bringing in new wrecks after he took the nine-to-five with the DA, but there are still plenty of cars on the lot, rusting as they wait for someone to rescue them from the raccoons and the weeds. Dean pulls in through the front gate and parks between Bobby's piece-of-shit van and a drunken pile of tires. The rain is coming down hard, chopping the yard into mud and making the tires stink.

Dean gets as far as the porch before Bobby barks, "What the hell took you so long?"

"Sorry, I was in no-tell country." As Dean closes the door, the old clock on Bobby's mantle chimes two with a sound like tin cans hitting concrete. Bobby's suit jacket is off, but he's still wearing his dress shirt and tie. Dean quirks an eyebrow and asks, "Shouldn't you be at the office?"

"I told 'em I had a doctor's appointment," Bobby explains. His rotgut bottle is on his desk; he tops off his own glass and pours one for Dean. "I had to get outta there. Henriksen's so far up my ass I can taste those cinnamon Altoids he chews all day."

Dean peels off his wet jacket and tosses it over the back of a chair. Then he picks up his rotgut and asks, "How bad of a spot am I in?"

"Sit down, will ya? You're giving me a crick in my neck."

"All right, all right," Dean says, grabbing the other chair. The rotgut smells like gasoline, but he kills about half of it in one swallow. "Spill."

"It ain't too bad yet. Acid sounds good coming outta the coroner's mouth, but she's got nothing backing it up."

"The tissue samples didn't wash?"

"Nope," Bobby says, loosening his tie. He pulls it over his head and tosses it on the desk. "If there's anything hinky on that skin, the doodads at the lab ain't picking it up."

"What stopped their hearts? Shock?"

"Doc's thinking Succinylcholine, but she can't stand a spoon in it yet."

"Any needle marks?"

"None on Alastair. A few on Ellsworth, but they're older than last night. He prob'ly liked to chase the dragon." Bobby leans back in his wheelchair and drums his fingers on his desk. "They're grasping at straws right now, but you ain't in the clear. And if you keep sitting on Alastair's client, Henriksen might can you for obstruction outta spite."

"PIs have privileges."

"Some. It ain't like you're a goddamn priest."

That's a horrible thought; Dean shakes his head to clear it away. "So, who's the canary saying Alastair was shorting me?"

A shifty look creases Bobby's face. He nurses his rotgut for a few seconds before saying, "Jeffrey Becks."

"Jeffrey —? What?" Dean grates out a noise and rubs his hand over his face. "He — are you fucking kidding me?"

"No."

"Sam dug up the evidence that proved Becks killed those women." Serial killings aren't normally a PI gig, but the family of one of the victims hired Sam when the police stopped making any ground. It had been a nasty case; Dean feels sick just thinking about it. "He figured out where Becks was buying the roofies _and_ where he was working on the bodies. He pretty much put that bastard away."

"Listen, son. You —"

"Besides, that was before Alastair's time. Like _years_ before."

"You all finished?" Bobby asks. When Dean shrugs and rolls his eyes, Bobby huffs under his breath and says, "Becks had a cellmate a coupla months back. His name ain't crossed my desk yet, but I guess this clown hired Alastair to settle some blackmail thing for him. It didn't shake out the way he wanted, but Alastair charged him anyway. Sent him to collections when he tried to duck it."

"Yeah. Alastair was a peach." Dean drains his glass and pours himself another finger. "Go on."

"Right after that, the guy went upriver for something unrelated. He got put in with Becks, and they... bonded over their mutual hatred for your office."

"And he told Becks Alastair gouged him." Dean whistles through his teeth. "Sounds like hearsay."

"It is," Bobby admits. "It won't hold water in court. But it puts a motive on at least one of those bodies, so Henriksen ain't looking it in the mouth."

Dean finishes his shot and sets the glass on the desk. It hits the old wood with a dull, hollow thunk. He sits there for a minute, listening to the clock tick and the rain pound while Bobby pretends he has crumbs in his beard. Hearsay can't be used against him, but if Henriksen believes it enough he'll try to make it into something solid. He'll subpoena Winchester & Alastair's books. And since Linda still does taxes for family and friends, he'll send someone up to Meditations to hassle her about the office's returns. Financially, Dean's clean. His paperwork is on the level, and if Alastair was skimming he never knew about it. But cops poking around his office and his loft and Linda's shop could turn up monster shit he won't be able to explain.

Bobby's wheelchair squeaks as he leans in and rests his elbow on his desk. He asks, "What's the deal with Alastair's client?"

"He, uh. He — where's Sam?"

"Hell if I know. You boys keep your own schedules."

Before Dean can say anything, the door creaks open and Sam squeezes inside, muttering, "I'm here, I'm here," as he drips water on the carpet. His hair is soaked and he's carrying a Starbucks cup. When he notices Dean glaring at it, he says, "Sorry. Jody called and asked to meet right after I texted you. I was afraid if I blew her off she'd —"

"Don't get me started on your girlfriend."

Sam says, "She's not my girlfriend," but his face heats slightly. Dean gives it a month. Maybe a month and a half.

"She busted in on me this morning and tried to grill me. I wasn't even dressed!"

Sam's mouth twitches, but he drowns the asshole remark caught between his teeth with a long swallow of coffee. Then he sets the cup on Bobby's desk and dumps his wet jacket right on top of Dean's. He smells cold and damp and a little like the inside of the wine-colored narc cruiser he shares with Jody — leather and stale "new car smell" air freshener.

As he's moving some books and papers off the only other chair, Bobby looks at him and asks, "How'd it go with Henriksen?"

"I'm out. He says it's too close to home. He's left Jody on it for now, but he's itching to take it away from her. If she doesn't get anywhere in a few days, he'll probably pass it to Walker and Kubrick."

"Great," Dean gripes. Walker and Kubrick are two of the best detectives in the city, but they're hard-nosed and old-school in a seventies cop thriller kind of way. And they work like dogs. If they get this case, Dean'll be bumping into them every time he turns around. He'll have a wet-eared uniform tailing him whenever he makes a beer run. The next sucker he hustles at pool will be a street snitch on their dime. "You got any more good news?"

"No," Sam says. He stretches his legs out, balancing one foot on top of the other. His boots are caked with mud. "Listen, we need to figure this out. Alastair —"

"Demons," Dean says.

Bobby snorts. "No shit, Sherlock. Whoever killed those two didn't stint on the sulfur."

"No," Dean says, shaking his head. "Alastair _was_ a demon. Ellsworth too."

Silence. They both stare at Dean like his head is on fire. The rain batters the roof. A car turns down the road behind the salvage yard, rattling like it's dragging its muffler.

Sam recovers first; he clears his throat and says, "That's — there's no way. He worked with you six months. There are devil's traps all over the office. He —"

"He wasn't possessed the whole time," Dean says. "I gave him a holy water beer when I interviewed him, and he was clean. I think it was recent. I mean, I never really liked the guy, but he was way more of a dick the last five, six weeks. I just —" he shrugs " — I didn't think anything of it. His marriage was on the rocks. I figured —" He shrugs again and sighs.

"You figured he was sleeping on the couch," Bobby says.

"Yeah."

Frowning, Sam says, "A few weeks is still —"

Dean waves him off. "Right after Jo left, this chick came in to see me. Ellie. She'd made a deal. Her mom got Parkinson's, and she'd — you know. Anyway, her bill was coming due. The sonofabitch holding her contract was wearing a banker from Kansas City. I called him with a blackmail story and set up a meeting. I broke the traps at the office so I could get him inside."

"All of them?"

"Yeah, 'cept the ones on the chairs."

Bobby buys himself another drink. "You get her off?"

"Yeah," Dean says, nodding. "He sat in a hot seat and got stuck, and I showed him the demon shank. I told him if he junked Ellie's contract and left her mom alone, I'd send him downstairs the old-fashioned way instead of giving him a sore throat."

Sam picks at the lid of his coffee. "And you never fixed the traps?"

"Nah." Heat digs under Dean's jaw. He feels like an idiot for being so sloppy, but the office traps are painted on the planking under the carpet, and he never found the time to move all the furniture out and rip it up again. "I wasn't —"

"Look," Bobby cuts in gruffly. "We need to get back to Alastair and Ellsworth."

Sam nods. He asks Dean, "What about Alastair's client?"

"I talked to him earlier."

"And what did he say?"

Dean hesitates for a second. Something is itching at the back of his neck. He takes a breath and admits, "He says he killed 'em."

"Hunter?" Bobby asks.

"Not exactly. He, uh. His name is Castiel. He — he says he's an angel."

Bobby just blinks at him. He grabs his glass of rotgut, slopping about a finger's worth over the rim before knocking the rest back in one swallow. After he's finished, he rubs both hands over his face. Then he sighs and asks, "You buying that?"

"No. Maybe. I — I don't know." Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. "Iron and silver didn't hurt him. When I said I didn't believe him, he — the lights blew out and the room shook and he — he, um." He opens his mouth. Closes it. Then he clears his throat and makes himself say it. "Wings. He had —"

"Wings?" Sam asks, his eyes wide. "Like _actual_ wings?"

"No. They were just shadows. But I —" Dean pauses, unable to explain it. How he'd still felt them after they disappeared. How it had still seemed like they were rustling around the corners of the room. "I don't know."

"I _knew_ it," Sam says. He sits up straight and raps his knuckles on the desk. "I always knew we'd run into an angel one day."

"Don't go all choirboy on me," Dean grumbles. "I'm not sure I believe him. He — I don't know. I —"

Bobby shuts him up with a sharp whistle. "All right. Just for laughs, let's say this guy _is_ an angel. Why didn't he clean up his crime scene?"

"I asked him about that. He said he snuffed Ellsworth easy, but I guess Alastair gave him a run for his money. He limped off to catch his breath for a coupla hours. When he got back to the Bel-Aire, it was crawling with cops. So he flew off."

Sam's eyebrows inch up. "Flew? Like —" he flaps a hand in the air. "Like _flying_?"

"Yeah." Dean shifts in his seat. "He was out when I got to his motel, so I let myself in. And I locked the door, but he — I don't know. One second he was gone, and the next he was right behind me. And I heard — fuck." He scrubs at his hair. "It sounded like feathers."

"Jesus Christ," Bobby mutters. His tips his head back and stares at the ceiling for a moment. Then he huffs out a noise and says, "None of this gets you off the hook."

Something itches at the back of Dean's neck again. He rubs at it and says, "He told me he'd deal with it. He said he had something else he had to take care of, but after that he'd put me in the clear."

"And you believe that?" Bobby asks.

Dean shrugs. "I guess I'll find out. I told him not to skip town."

"Well," Sam says thoughtfully. "We have his name. If he does pull a runner, we can probably summon him."

"Yeah," Dean says. He shivers a little. "Probably."

 

+

 

Dean leaves Bobby's place in the middle of a downpour. The rain is ruthless, coming down at a slant that hits the Impala's windshield like buckshot and falling fast enough that US 59 is practically a river. Water arcs along the Impala's fenders in twin waterfalls. Dean settles on a speed that'll get him back to Lawrence sometime today but won't send him hydroplaning into a ditch. He spends the drive trying to decide his next move. He needs to get back to the Starlite before Castiel gives him the slip; he wants to grab a shower and put on a t-shirt that isn't a giant sweat-stain.

The early afternoon traffic makes the decision for him. He's in the wrong lane when he gets even with I-70; it's either keep on keeping on or run the car next to him off the highway. He shakes his head and turns up the radio, tapping his fingers in time with _Hair of the Dog_ and _Number of the Beast._ The street parking outside his building is open for a change; the weather probably chased all the window shoppers away. When Dean gets inside, the sound of Kevin typing is echoing up and down the hallway. He skips the office and climbs the stairs. The ancient red carpet running up the center of the steps is starting to curl at the edges.

His stomach growls as he walks into the loft. He hasn't eaten since that chicken-fried steak this morning. He dumps a can of tomato-rice soup into a saucepan and sets a burner on low. Then he hops in the shower. When he gets out, he throws on a clean set of clothes. He starts a third pot of heartburn coffee and eats the soup straight from the saucepan while he waits for it to brew. He pours the coffee into his trusty Fuel & Go cup. This is probably its last stand; its bottom feels soft and a stain is spreading along the seam running up its side.

After he grabs his keys and stashes his gun in his jeans, Dean pauses in front of Sam's old room. His personal stock of lore is pretty thin. He has two or three books on demons; everything else is about regular monsters. Nothing on angels. Bobby had said he'd check his own library, but he'd also told Dean not to get his hopes up. There's a retired hunter named Rufus who might have something useful, but it takes a bottle of Blue Label and a drive to Montana to get an audience with him and Dean doesn't have the money or the time. The Letters bunker in Lebanon is only three hours away; Dean dials its number as he heads back downstairs.

After two and a half rings, a cheery voice says, "Letters. This is Charlie."

"Hey, Charlie. It's Dean."

"I'm sorry, I don't know a Dean. Unless you mean Dean Winchester, who is dead to me because he hasn't come by for a visit in like four months."

"Sorry, kiddo. I've been working a lot." Dean tucks his phone against his ear so he can open the front door. Kevin is still typing. He's also muttering under his breath; Dean doesn't bother saying hi. "How are you and Dorothy?"

"Dorothy's great. She's out on a hunt right now."

"Alone?"

"Yeah. A vampire broke my wrist, so I'm on the bench for six weeks. It's just a salt-and-burn, though. She promised to be home by breakfast."

Dean flops into his chair and sighs. "Charlie."

"Don't you dare give me a lecture. How many times have you —"

"Okay, okay," Dean says, laughing under his breath. "No lecture."

"So, is this call business or pleasure?"

"Business." Dean leans his elbows on his desk and tries to stretch his stiff shoulders. Rain beats against the window behind him. "You got anything on angels?"

Charlie pauses for a second. Then she says, "Did you — angels?"

"Yeah. I know it's weird. Just humor me."

"Okay. I can't think of anything off the top of my head, but I'll take a look." She pauses again. Static from the bunker's crappy landline buzzes in Dean's ear. "Actually... Gilda would probably know. She went back to faerie for some festival, but I can summon her later."

"Why didn't you go with her?"

Charlie huffs. "I couldn't. My splint has steel in it."

"Bummer. I bet they throw a mean party."

"Oh, yeah. Killer."

The doorknob rattles Dean back to the present. Kevin comes in, stands in front of his desk, and shifts his weight from foot to foot like he has to take a piss. Dean gestures for him to hold on and tells Charlie, "Listen, kiddo. I gotta get back to work. Lemme know if you dig anything up."

"Okie dokie."

Dean says, "Thanks," and hangs up. Then he rubs his temples and looks at Kevin. Kevin is wearing his coat and holding his backpack. He has class on Tuesday afternoons, but it's barely three o'clock. Frowning, Dean asks him, "You going somewhere?"

"Yeah, school. The rain's like — it's going to take me two hours to get out there."

"You know, I don't get it," Dean says. He grabs the aspirin bottle out of his top drawer and scatters two pills on the desk. "Why are you going to KSU when there's a university right here in town?"

"KSU has a better mythology department," Kevin says.

He has barbecue sauce on his cheek; Dean thumbs at his own until he figures it out. "Better, huh? Who's got the best?"

"Berkeley. But my mom didn't want me that far away after the whole demon thing."

"Right." Dean knocks the aspirin back with a mouthful of coffee. It isn't really cool enough yet; he coughs a little as he points at the door. "Go. Drive safe."

Kevin turns around but stops short. Over his shoulder, he says, "Oh, yeah. There's a guy here to see you. Said his name is Crowley."

"What's he look like?"

"Middle management."

Dean's lip curls. He's probably a cheater and wants Dean to get him out of the doghouse. Or he's being blackmailed and wants Dean to get him out of the doghouse. "Send him in."

Crowley enters almost as soon as Kevin leaves. He's shorter than Dean and dressed in a black suit and black tie. The suit is expensive and the tie is silk. His black overcoat is perfectly cut. His hair is thinning on top, but he doesn't seem bothered by it. He studies Dean for a few minutes, lurking in the doorway like it'll make Dean uncomfortable.

Eventually, he invites himself all the way in and asks, "Dean Winchester?"

"That's me."

Crowley takes a second to straighten his tie. Then he rests a hand on the back of the tan and white client chair and offers Dean the other. His palm is clammy and cold. "The name's Crowley."

"Yeah, Kevin told me. What can I do for you?"

Crowley doesn't answer. Instead, he burrs, "Charming place," and looks around.

Dean looks with him. Dishwater carpet that's seen better days. Walls somewhere between beige and colorless. Two windows — one partially blocked by a fire escape ladder. The middle drawer of the filing cabinet is sagging open an inch. The wastebasket needs to be emptied. Alastair's desk is getting dusty. It's still cluttered; the police haven't sent the vulture squad to pick through his things.

When Crowley finishes his five-cent tour, he asks, "Tell me, Winchester. How much do you charge?"

Dean already hates this guy, and he needs to get back to Castiel. But he can't afford to turn down a legitimate job. Leaning back in his chair, he says, "Two hundred an hour, plus expenses. Unless the job doesn't smell right."

"And then what? You charge four hundred?"

"No. Then I tell you to get the hell outta my office."

Crowley _hmmms_ at that, a snake-in-the-grass kind of sound. He has an accent, but it's vague enough that Dean can't pinpoint it. Irish, maybe. Or Scottish. He says, "Well, I'm not here to hire you in your... usual capacity. But I do have a business proposition for you."

"All right. Hit me."

"I have this friend. Well, no. He's more of an associate. You know what I mean: I wouldn't have him over for tea, but I might tell him if his hair was on fire." Crowley waits for Dean to laugh; when it doesn't happen, he thins his mouth and continues, "My associate is a collector. Dumb curios, mostly. One of these knick-knacks has been stolen. I'd like for you to get it back."

Dean sips his coffee like he's thinking about it. His tongue is still burn-tender. Once the pause is brittle enough to break, he asks, "How many reasons do I have?"

"How does twenty thousand sound?"

"Twenty thousand dollars." Dean shakes his head and whistles through his teeth. "That's a lot of paper for a guy who makes his living snooping at keyholes. What's the catch?"

Crowley sighs irritably. "There's no _catch_. The fee is insurance. My associate wants the job done well and he wants it done quietly. He's a... private person. He doesn't want any scenes or newspapers. Nobody's encouraging you to break the law, but if you do: don't get caught."

"Your associate... does he know who stole it?"

"Yes."

"Why doesn't he just go to the police? They work for free."

Crowley misses a beat before saying, "It's complicated."

An ugly laugh bubbles into Dean's throat. He swallows about half of it before saying, "No, it ain't complicated. It's stolen. This thing was hot property _before_ your buddy's pocket got picked. He wants it back but he doesn't wanna get his hands dirty." Christ, he fucking hates rich people. "What is it, anyway?"

"It's —" Crowley cuts off, a frown pinching his mouth. "It's a length of wood. Narrow. Slightly curved at one end."

"Doesn't sound like much. At least, it doesn't sound like twenty grand."

"Does it sound like twenty-five grand?"

That's a lot of money, but Dean makes himself shrug and say, "That ain't my problem. I just don't get why your buddy's willing to drop that much change for a stick."

"He's a little eccentric. And the... stick has sentimental value. His father made it."

Dean chews his lip. Everything about this is screaming "illegal activity," and he's already up to his neck in police problems. But no one offers twenty-five grand for a piece of wood unless there's something freaky about it. It's probably cursed, and a cursed object floating around in the general population is going to end in deaths. A few years ago, he and Sam got tangled up with a hexed rabbit's foot that had jerked them around like a carnival ride. They'd barely made it out of that mess with their skins.

"Yeah, all right," Dean says. He won't see a dime of the money — not if he "loses" the stick in a curse box — but he lets a greedy smile tug at his mouth. "Tell me about the guy who stole it."

"He came into this office yesterday," Crowley says, leaning across the table. His eyes burn red. "His name is Castiel."

Dean tries to jump up, but he's frozen solid from the chin down. A thread of sulfur stings his noise. He hadn't noticed it earlier, but between the heater and the weather, the whole office stinks like oven-baked dust and wet wool. Crowley straightens. As his eyes fade to normal, Dean looks him over again. He should've realized. The rain is coming down like a waterfall, but Crowley's overcoat is dry.

"Crossroads demon?" Dean asks. The banker holding Ellie's contract had flashed red eyes.

"The King of the Crossroads," Crowley says smugly. He spreads his hands. "I'll admit, this little caper isn't my usual thing, but finding the stick has incentives. Where's Castiel?"

"I don't know."

"That's a lie, but we'll get back to it later. I'm more interested in the stick." After a long pause, Crowley adds, "I know you're a hunter. I also know about your cheap tricks." With a flick of his hand, he sends the client chair flying across the room. It upends against Alastair's desk, showing the devil's trap chalked underneath the seat. "You cost me a perfectly good soul a few months back."

"Sorry."

Crowley squeezes Dean's throat with an invisible hand. Once he has Dean red-face and gasping, he asks, "Did Castiel leave it here?"

"No," Dean croaks, trying to suck in air.

The pressure on Dean's throat shifts, but it's just a threat. Crowley hums quietly and says, "You might not know. Those bloody treetoppers play all sorts of games. They can fly and stop time and scramble your memories like eggs." He pauses for a moment, his eyes narrowing. "Castiel wouldn't stash it without protection. He's a poor excuse for an angel, but he isn't stupid. Is anything in this dump warded? A box, or a drawer — anything like that?"

"No."

"That might be the truth. Hunters are hoarders by nature, but they always live in one-room shacks when they aren't living out of their broken-down vans. You don't have the space here." Another pause drags out; Crowley almost lets Dean breathe. "Where's your storage unit?"

"Don't — don't have one."

Crowley squeezes Dean's throat again. Invisible fingers dig into the skin below his jaw, hard enough to bruise. Dean's vision swims a little. Crowley says, "Of course you do. You have at least two. There's one close by, for rare books and weapons you only need once in a blue moon. The other one is the next state over. It's full of all the things you'd rather not think about."

Between his own crap and his dad's, Dean has five lockups spanning Nevada and West Virginia. But he isn't admitting that to Crowley. He can't speak, so he grunts out a noise and shakes his head.

"Huh. You're a tough nut to crack. Or... at least you think you are." Crowley glances at the wooden chair beside the door, and it skids across the floor, snagging the carpet as it goes. The box of junk from Lisa's garage topples off with a rattle. Dean bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood as Crowley says, "I guess we'll see."

He sits. A horrified look crosses his face.

"Comfy?" Dean asks, rolling his shoulders. Gingerly, he touches his throat. In an hour, it's going to be a furious, purple bruise.

"You don't want to do this."

"Yeah. Pretty sure I do."

"I'm not some two-bit smoker," Crowley says, jerking his head. "This won't hold me forever."

"Forever's overrated. I just need a few minutes." Dean's chair whines as he stands. He walks around the desk, sticks his hand into Crowley's suit jacket, and grabs the wallet from the inside pocket. He dumps everything it's holding on the desk and says, "Let's see what we're dealing with."

There isn't much. No ID and no credit cards. Close to a thousand in cash, most of it in c-notes. A receipt for a room at the Eldridge Hotel under the name Thomas Brighton. A magnetic keycard with the same room number — 206.

Dean's legs are a little shaky, so he shoves it all aside and sits on the edge of the desk. He says, "Tell me about the stick. Is it cursed?"

"No. It's — it's an angelic weapon."

Dean chews on that for a second. It means Castiel isn't a liar, at least not about being an angel. Jesus Christ. An _angel_. He spends thirty-seven years thinking God is a fairy-tale people tell themselves so they can sleep at night, and now _this_.

"Okay," he says finally. "If it's one of Heaven's toys, why do _you_ want it?"

Crowley looks at him like he's stupid. "It's powerful. Why wouldn't I want it?"

"What about your buddy? Animal, vegetable, or mineral?"

"He's human."

"Why does he want it?"

"He doesn't know what it is. He's a religious nut. He thinks it's a piece of the True Cross." Crowley sighs and jerks his head again. His shoulders almost follow the motion; Dean's running out of time. Crowley continues, "When Castiel stole it, the man was frantic. He resorted to some... unsavory channels. I heard about it, and I offered to help him find it to get my finger in the pie."

"And Castiel... what? He's gonna take it back to Heaven?"

Crowley twitches in a way that's almost a shrug. "He's been off God's Christmas list for years. He probably wants to flap into the clouds with it and make Daddy love him again. The Prodigal Son, et cetera, et cetera."

Dean walks back around his desk and grabs his office bottle from the bottom drawer. He helps himself to a shot without bothering with a glass. "What's all this gotta do with me?"

"Interested parties have been closing in on Castiel for weeks. He —"

"Alastair and Ellsworth?"

"Yes, them. But other demons as well. A few angels, too. When I heard he visited you, I figured he stashed it in some hunter oubliette to take the heat off. That would let him lie low for a spell without worrying about it falling into the wrong hands."

Brakes squeal out on the street. Crowley's foot spasms. Dean stuffs his office bottle back in the drawer and weighs his options. Exorcising Crowley will just send him back downstairs in one piece. He'll be topside again by lunchtime tomorrow, and if he hops into a new meatsuit, Dean won't see him coming. The demon shank is out in the Impala; with the luck Dean's been having today, he'll get back inside just as Crowley is wriggling out of the trap.

"Tick-tock, Winchester," Crowley says, shifting in the chair. "I'm a minute or two from crawling straight up your arse."

Dean snorts. "Don't talk dirty. It makes you sound cheap."

He fishes around in the filing cabinet's top drawer, tossing out papers and folders until he turns up a salt canister. He draws a fat line across the doorway. Crowley starts to say something, but Dean just steps over the line and slams the door in his face.

 

+

 

Dean heads out to the Impala at something that isn't exactly a run. He needs to move fast, but he doesn't want to attract attention from anyone on the street. He only sees one person — a woman smoking a cigarette under the low sweep of the tattoo shop's corrugated awning. The neon sign buzzing in the shop's window washes her tan raincoat a gaudy green. A paisley scarf is bursting out of her collar and a floppy hat is angled across her face. She checks her watch as Dean climbs into his car. He hauls his duffel onto the seat and rummages around for the demon shank, freezing when he hears a low, angry rumble that isn't thunder. He glances back at the office. The street-front window is rattling and the lamp peeking above the sunbleached café curtain is flickering.

"Fuck," Dean spits, jamming his key in the ignition. His misses twice because his hand is shaking too hard. "Fucking shit."

The engine grumbles awake reluctantly, like it's unhappy about the crappy weather. Dean revs the bad attitude out of it, muttering, "C'mon, c'mon," with his blood rushing in his ears and his heart at a full gallop. Once the Impala perks up, Dean gives the dash a smack and throws it into gear. He peels away from the curb, pitching a thin wave of water up onto the sidewalk. Rain pummels the windshield. Steam starts patching the glass because Dean's breathing like he just ran a marathon. He wipes the worst of it off with the back of his hand and switches on the defroster. His throat feels swollen and raw.

Three blocks from the office, Dean gets stuck at a red light. He uses the time to type out a text to Kevin that says, "demon trapped @ office, stay away!" A police cruiser pulls up alongside him just as he's pressing send. The cops inside are zeroed in on their cups of coffee, but Dean isn't taking any chances, not when he has a bag full of weapons practically in his lap. He drops his phone on the seat, nudges his duffel back into the footwell, and puts both hands on the wheel. When the light finally turns green, he glances in the rearview mirror and eases on the gas. The car behind him is a charcoal Prius. An uneasy feeling knots in Dean's gut; he checks the rearview mirror again and takes a good look at the driver.

It's the same chick he saw standing outside the tattoo shop. She's traded the hat for a pair of Farrah Fawcett sunglasses, but Dean recognizes her coat and the loud pattern on her scarf. He lets her follow him for a few blocks. There's not much else he can do with a cruiser riding shotgun. At the next light, he studies the Prius so he can give Donna a description later, something better than, "gray and ugly." It doesn't have a front license plate. There's a dent on its nose near the passenger-side blinker, and a faded Avis sticker is peeling in one corner of the windshield. She must notice him watching; she tugs her scarf up over her mouth and she backs off his bumper slightly.

Another half-mile down, the cops flip a u-turn. They chirp their siren and flash their disco lights and then cut in front of Dean, giving the Impala's grill too close of a shave. Once they're out of Dean's hair, he leans on the gas. She lets him have the breather; eventually, enough space opens up that an elderly Buick slides between them on its way to the suicide lane. Lightning flares behind the clouds. When Dean moves right, the chick only waits a few beats before following.

Dean figures she's human. A demon wouldn't be tailing him in a fucking car. She might be someone who ended up on the wrong side of a PI job. Or she might be on Don Stark's dime, hired to dig up something that would discredit him and those pictures he took. Even so, an itch behind his teeth is telling him to ditch her before he gets to Castiel's motel. His hands are white-knuckled on the wheel. He takes a few deep breaths to slow his jackrabbit pulse. He'd need more cars on the road to get lost in traffic. The storm has plunged Lawrence into an early twilight — dark, but not dark enough to really hide in.

About four blocks from the Starlite, Dean turns right down a side-street. It's narrow and curbless and poorly-lit. He turns right again at the end of the block and then takes the next left. He coasts around the second corner, glancing in the rearview mirror just as she pulls over beside a mailbox. She probably knows she's been crowding him. Chewing his lip, he takes another left. The residential stretch of no-tell country is a warren of streets Dean's only somewhat familiar with. He doesn't want to slam into a dead-end or get quicksanded in a gravel pit because the pavement ended without warning. He swings into an empty driveway, kills his lights, and hunches down.

He doesn't hear her approach because goddamn hybrids don't make any noise, but her headlights fan across the face of the house as she passes. They whitewash the wood-paneled garage door and the overgrown bougainvillea climbing the drainpipe. She realizes her mistake about five houses down. She hits her brakes as Dean throws the Impala into reverse and backs out. He keeps his lights off. He tears back the same way he came, spitting rainwater and loose gravel as he rounds the turns. He idles for a split-second when he reaches the main drag. If he's going to shake her, he'll have to ditch his car.

Instead of cutting left or right, he guns it and makes a straight shot for the red and yellow glare of the Biggerson's across the street. He parks near the entrance, snags his duffel, and ducks inside. The late afternoon crowd is pretty thin, just a handful of teenagers fresh from school and a few blue-haired, early-bird specials. A waiter passes him with a nod and a tray stacked with food. The restaurant is L-shaped; a long dining room straddles the cash register and two smaller dining rooms branch off one corner. The one farthest back is dark. Dean heads for it and hopes it has an emergency door.

A tower of highchairs looms against the wall. A busboy is sleeping at one of the booths. Dean eases by him so his gear won't clank and wake him up. This dining room is right on top of the kitchen; the air feels greasy and thick and smells like frying oil and burnt bacon. The emergency door is in the far corner. Dean hip-checks a table on his way over, and he grits his teeth as the silverware clatters and the salt and pepper shakers rattle and bounce. Predictably, the door is alarmed. Dean presses the bar with a wince, but the buzzer just whines like it doesn't really mean it.

He comes out on the other side of the restaurant's horseshoe parking lot, right where it rubs up against a no-tell called the Lucky Lady. The Lucky Lady has red doors instead of blue, and its parking lot has been repaved in recent memory. Other than that, it's the Starlite's twin. They're facing each other across the street, standing nearly eye to eye. The wind has picked up again, forcing the rain into a slant. A styrofoam Biggerson's cup skitters past Dean's feet.

After checking for the Prius, he slogs across the wet tarmac and melts into the shadows cast by the Lucky Lady's vending machines. Rain soaks his hair and jacket and drips into his collar. The ice hopper wheezes against his back. He waits for what feels like a long time and then waits a little more. He buys a Coke and drinks it while the hems of his jeans soak up the puddle swirling around his feet. Once his teeth start chattering, he chucks the can in the Lucky Lady's dumpster and jaywalks across to the Starlite.

 

+

 

Dean has Castiel's key, so he doesn't bother knocking. The lock sticks slightly. The door groans open like it's dying. When Dean walks in, he finds Castiel sprawled on one of the beds without his trenchcoat or suit jacket. His tie is off and his sleeves are rolled up to the elbow. He's watching _Criminal Minds_.

"Really?" Dean asks, tossing his duffel on the table. "You're an angel of the lord, and this is what you do when you ain't on the clock?"

"You didn't want me to leave," Castiel says blandly. He kills the TV by glancing at it. Then he slides off the bed and moves toward Dean. "Why are you all wet?"

Dean pauses as he's shrugging off his water-logged jacket. His shirts are somewhere between damp and moist. "I got stuck —"

"And you're injured."

Tentatively, Castiel reaches for Dean's throat. His hand seems huge; Dean flinches back a step on reflex. His bruised muscles and skin have started to ache in the last hour, and he feels like he's swallowed a cheese grater. Castiel studies him for a moment, his head tipping to the side. Dean takes another half-step back, but he bumps into the table. It wobbles against his hip. Castiel makes a soft but pointed noise and reaches for Dean again. This time, Dean lets him. He doesn't really have a choice.

Castiel brushes his hand over Dean's cheek. His eyes glint silver and a blue-white light blazes from the center of his palm. Something spreads through Dean's body, something that's hot and cold at the same time, something that _feels_ bright. It reminds him of the weird heat that keeps flaring in his shoulder, but it's softer and slower. It rolls over in him in waves instead of stabbing straight into him. The smell of ozone crackles around the room, like the aftermath of dry lightning. Dean shivers as his pain subsides and the warmth finally ebbs away. He tries to say, "Thanks," but nothing comes out.

"Some humans find that tiring," Castiel says, saving Dean the trouble. His eyes are a normal blue again. "You should probably sit."

Dean yanks out one of the chairs. It's a metal and molded plastic job, the kind of thing IKEA would sell if IKEA made its furniture on the moon. The curved back has a star-shaped hole punched through the center and the seat dips and creaks under Dean's weight. Fatigue nudges him as soon as he sits, but it's garden-variety sleepiness, not the bone-deep exhaustion that comes from a stakeout or a long hunt. Dean knuckles his eyes. Then he leans his elbow on the table and yawns. Castiel hands him a towel.

"I stood out in the rain for forty minutes," Dean explains, blotting his face. The towel is rougher than sandpaper and reeks of motel-grade detergent. "Some chick stuck herself to my shoe when I left my office. I wanted to lose her before I got here."

"You were followed?" Castiel asks sharply. "By a demon?"

"I think she was human." Something about her is nagging Dean a little — something familiar, something that made him stop at look at her when he should've been worried about Crowley busting loose and killing him — but another yawn carries that thought away before he can really get ahold of it. "I don't know."

"But you... lost her?"

Dean scrubs the stinky towel over his wet hair. "Yeah, I lost her. You think she was looking for you?"

"I'm sure of it."

"Can't these people just —?" Dean can't find the right words, so he just frowns and wiggles his fingers. "You know."

Castiel untucks half his shirt and hikes it up under his arm, flashing a tattoo slightly larger than Dean's hand. It's four rows of letters and symbols done in heavy, black lines. Dean doesn't recognize the language. It sits low on Castiel's abdomen, close to his navel. It looks good there.

Dean distracts himself from staring by asking, "What's that?"

"Protection." Castiel drops his shirt but doesn't tuck it back in, so it just bunches awkwardly around the waist of his slacks. "It hides me from angelic and demonic sight. I can't be compelled by a summons, and my location can't be divined through witchcraft."

Dean clucks his tongue. "Huh. Crowley said you were on Heaven's shitlist, but —"

"You spoke with Crowley?" Castiel asks. The words are clipped, like bullet casings hitting concrete. "He — is he the one who hurt you?"

Dean snorts out a noise. He touches his throat, even though it doesn't hurt anymore. "Yeah. It was a fun conversation."

"What did he want?"

"He asked me where you were. He also seemed to think I had the stick." A hunted look flits across Castiel's face. His mouth thins slightly. When he doesn't say anything, Dean presses, "He said it was an angelic weapon."

"Yes. It — yes, it is."

Dean tosses the towel on the table and rubs the back of his neck. A train whistle hums through the silence, muted by the rain and the motel's distance from the river. Castiel paces toward the beds. Then he sighs under his breath and paces back. His shoes whisper over the threadbare carpet. His shirt has straightened itself out.

Finally, Dean asks, "You didn't come here just to kill two demons, did you?"

"No."

"So you lied to me."

Castiel hesitates. Then he says, "Essentially, what I told you was true. Ellsworth —"

"Cut the crap," Dean snaps, smacking his hand on the table. Anger flashes in Castiel's eyes, but Dean ignores the fear thrumming under his ribs and keeps talking. "I wanna know what's going on."

"I don't want to involve you."

"An hour ago, a demon almost choked me to death. I _am_ involved. I just don't know what the game is."

Castiel hesitates again. A car pulls into the Starlite's parking lot; its headlights briefly peek into the room through the flimsy blue curtains. Dean sighs and drums his fingers on his knee. If this was just a regular job, he would've walked out of the door ten minutes ago. There's an itch under his skin pushing him to grab his shit and hit the road. But he — fuck. He doesn't know.

After another beat or two of indecision, Castiel sits down across from him. His chair doesn't whine about it. He folds his arms on the table and says, "Heaven has a cache of special weapons. Some were created during the war in Heaven — the war that banished Lucifer to hell. Others were created for specific purposes. They've been locked away for millennia."

"Sounds terrifying."

Castiel wastes a few more seconds frowning at the table. Then he looks back up and Dean and continues, "Twenty years ago, they were stolen. These weapons — they're all dangerous. Some are deadly. The archangels were concerned they would fall into the wrong hands. I was tasked with recovering them."

"Okay," Dean says slowly. His headache is coming back; this shit is way above his paygrade. "You — wait. You told me you've been down here eight years."

"I took _this_ vessel eight years ago," Castiel says, glancing down at himself. "I used others before it, for short periods of time."

"And are they — are they, um."

"Alive?" Castiel asks bluntly. When Dean nods, Castiel says, "Yes, they are. They're alive and healthy. Only one even remembers it. But Daphne was — she has... special gifts. Humans would call her psychic."

Dean shakes his head and blows out a breath. "Wow. You guys can really —" he cuts off, hearing Crowley's voice in his head — "scramble our memories like eggs?"

A frown pulls at the corner of Castiel's mouth. "Yes," he admits. "I find it... distasteful, but it's expected. As I told you, angels haven't openly walked the earth in two thousand years. When we come here, it's with purpose. Once that purpose is fulfilled, we return to Heaven."

"After windexing your meatsuit's brain." Dean shakes his head again. "You guys sound like a barrel of laughs." Castiel makes a quiet, affronted noise, but Dean doesn't give him the chance to start an argument. He says, "Let's get back to these heavenly nukes. Who stole them?"

"An angel named Balthazar. He'd grown tired of Heaven, so he —"

"He came to earth and set up shop as an arms dealer?"

Flatly, Castiel says, "Yes. It took me almost three years to find him. He changed vessels frequently and used hex bags to conceal himself. When I brought him back to Heaven, he was interrogated. He eventually named his buyers, but by that point the items had exchanged hands several times."

"Yeah, hot property usually does," Dean mutters. The detergent smell lurking around the towel is itching his nose, so he balls it up and lobs it toward the bathroom. "So, what's this stick everyone's all excited about?"

"It's the Staff of Moses."

Dean just stares at him for a second. Jesus fucking Christ. "Moses? Like _let my people go_? Like parted-the-Red-Sea Moses?"

"Yes, Moses did use the Staff to part the Red Sea," Castiel sounds perfectly calm, like all of this is normal. Just another day at the office. Dean blinks up at the ceiling as he continues, "He also used it to create the ten plagues."

Dean chews his lip. He knows this story, but he's so fucking tired he can't remember the details. "Frogs, right? Locusts? First born sons?"

"Among other things."

"Yeah, all right. I can see why you guys don't want this thing just lying around." Dean shivers; his clothes are still a little damp and the room is an icebox. He stands with only a mild complaint from his chair. Rolling a kick out of his shoulders, he heads over to the window unit. He pushes buttons at random until it starts coughing out warm air. "Is this what got you in trouble upstairs?"

Castiel shifts uncomfortably. His jaw tics. Then he admits, "Yes. The Staff is capable of blighting crops. Such a blight occurred in a wooded area outside Pontiac, Illinois eight years ago. I took this vessel and searched for it. Rumors placed it at a warehouse in the city. I was... delayed on my way there. By the time I arrived, it had already been moved somewhere else."

Dean shivers again, and not just because of the chill. He studies the floor and rubs the scar on his shoulder. He doesn't like coincidences. And this probably is one. There's no way a bunch of heavenly bullshit has anything to do with his dad dying on a hunt that went sideways. But — fuck. He doesn't like it. He doesn't like it so much it's making his teeth itch.

"Dean?" Castiel asks.

"Sorry. I was just —" Dean shakes his head and huffs himself back to reality. "Where's it now?"

"I don't know."

"Crowley thinks you have it. He said you stole it from some guy — a human who collects religious junk." Dean moves back over to the table. He skims his hand over the arm of his chair, but he doesn't sit. His legs are too restless. Instead, he stands beside Castiel and breathes in ozone and fresh-cut grass. "He rattled me because he thought I'd stashed it for you. In a curse box, or — you know. Something a demon can't touch."

Castiel huffs. "That's —"

"Is that what happened?" Dean asks roughly. Anger simmers in his gut. "It is, isn't it? You got me to ditch it for you and then screwed my head around so I'd forget it."

"Dean," Castiel says, his voice rumbling into the corners of the room. It's a dangerous sound. "Ellsworth had the Staff. At least, he claimed he had it when I spoke with him."

"You —? Ellsworth —?" Dean sighs and sits on the edge of the closest bed. "You — just tell me the whole fucking story."

Castiel echoes Dean's sigh. Then he leans back in his chair and says, "As I told you, I've been searching for the Staff for eight years. Recently, rumors put it with Ellsworth. I tracked him here — to the Bel-Aire motel."

"Okay."

"He checked in Thursday evening, but he rarely stayed there. He —"

"Can't say I blame him. That place is a dump. It's almost as bad as this — sorry. Go on."

"Ellsworth spent his time out in the city. He always visited places that were crowded with humans — restaurants, bars, night clubs, pool halls. I wanted to get him alone, so I called his motel yesterday morning and offered to buy the Staff. I let him believe I was human. We arranged to meet at eight o'clock. During our conversation, he implied that he wasn't working alone."

"Right, yeah," Dean mutters. "Alastair."

Castiel nods and continues, "When I couldn't sense a second demon in the area, I went to your office —"

"So you could poke around in my head!"

"Which I did not do," Castiel points out sharply.

"Only 'cause the demon found you first," Dean gripes, rubbing his eyes. "You said you could tell he was a demon once you were looking at him. Could he... _see_ you, or whatever?"

"Yes. My protective tattoo has limitations, just like the hex bags he carried. Once we were face to face, he knew me as an angel."

"Huh." Alastair had flinched when he first saw Castiel at the office, but Dean hadn't thought anything of it. Having a bad marriage had made him a short-tempered sonofabitch. He'd never needed a reason to gnash his teeth. "I'm surprised he tried to get frisky with you. I mean —" Dean wags a finger at his eyes "— you guys don't screw around. You just blast people outta their bodies."

"He probably thought that spell would... take care of me. It almost did."

Thinking about that puts a burr under Dean's ribs, so he asks, "But you tangled with Ellsworth first, right?"

Castiel nods again. "I hired Alastair so I could get them together and kill them at the same time. But after I left your office, I began to reconsider. Demons are selfish creatures, loyal only to themselves. I worried that confronting them together would give one the opportunity to take the Staff and disappear. I called Ellsworth again and asked to meet at five o'clock instead. He agreed, but when I arrived he wasn't there."

"Alastair tipped him off. He heard an angel was coming for him and he panicked."

"Probably." Castiel pauses and runs a hand through his hair, the gesture a little to stiff to be completely human. "I searched his room, but I didn't find the Staff. He returned eventually, and —" He shrugs. "You know the rest."

Dean tries to say, "Yeah," but his voice catches in his throat as his jaw splits around a yawn. An undertow of exhaustion is quickly dragging him down. Hunching over, he rests his elbows on his knees. He yawns again.

The air rustles with a sound like the wind. When Dean looks up, Castiel is gone. An eyeblink later, the air rustles again and Castiel is standing in front of him. He's close enough that their knees are touching. He's giving off heat like a banked fire, steady and slow.

"You should sleep."

"Yeah, right," Dean scoffs. He'd love to sleep; he just doesn't know _where_. Sam's studio has a futon that belongs in a torture chamber, and Bobby has two second-floor bedrooms he never uses, but Dean doesn't want to sink them into this angel crap unless he absolutely has to. "If I go home, I'm gonna wake up to Crowley standing over my bed."

"Stay here," Castiel says simply. "I'll watch over you."

Dean blinks at him. "What —? Dude, that's —"

"It's the most reasonable solution. Your home isn't safe. If you stay here, I can protect you."

"Yeah, okay, but —" Dean yawns again.

Lightly, Castiel touches Dean's shoulder. "Dean, go to sleep."

"Okay," Dean mumbles. "Okay."

 

+

 

_The heat is like a blast furnace. Dean's skin is starting to blister. The back of his throat is scorched and raw. The roof groans overhead. The whole building shakes. A rafter shears off with a crack like lightning, crashing down near Dean's feet. Sparks catch in his hair and clothes. Ash billows in his face._

_Everything is smoke. Dean crouches down, sucking in air with his face pressed to the dirty concrete. His lungs burn. His lips are bleeding. His dad shouts, but the thunder-roar of the fire drowns out the words. The roof groans again. Dean crawls forward a little. Gray spots shimmer at the edge of his vision, blurring the orange-red glare of the fire._

_The air shifts beside his ear. Flutters. The searing heat ebbs slightly. A hand grips his shoulder. Someone whispers. Tugs him. He can't move. Sirens are blaring. The hand on his shoulder tightens. Tugs him again. His legs feel like lead. His nose and mouth are clogged with ash. He can't breathe._

_Something slides over him. Soft. Soft. He hears a rustle. Something —_

Dean wakes up in a dark room. Fingers are gently carding through his hair. His headache is gone, but his brain feels stale and dusty and wrinkled, like a pile of dirty laundry. The lights flashing in the corner of his eye are brightly-colored and erratic — probably a TV. His knife isn't under his pillow, and the mattress isn't memory foam. The bathroom sink is dripping too fast. Everything smells like industrial-strength bleach instead of Gain.

The TV's next outburst is bright-white, nearly blinding as it flares across the scratchy bedspread. Dean gets a split-second glimpse of the stars dotting it and remembers that he's in Castiel's motel room.

He's cottonmouthed from the musty scorch of the heater. He croaks like a frog two or three times before asking, "Cas —? What're you doing?"

Castiel's hand pauses. His thumb hides behind the shell of Dean's ear. After a short, cautious silence, he says, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have —" He cuts off with a quiet noise. "You were restless. You seemed to want comfort."

"It's, um." An embarrassed flush crawls across Dean's face. He isn't a little kid. He doesn't need to be coddled. He just — Christ. There's a part of him that wants to squirm away. There's another part of him that wants to lean into Castiel's hand like a cat. "My dad — he died in a fire. Sometimes I have this dream. It's, uh. I —"

"You don't have to tell me about it," Castiel says quietly. "Not unless you want to."

Dean doesn't know what he wants, but a knot is burning in the back of his throat, so he just breathes through it and keeps his mouth shut. A door slams upstairs. A loose thread on the bedspread is tickling his nose. Sighing, he rolls over. The mattress bounces and squeaks like a truck with bad shocks. He ends up with his face about an inch from Castiel's thigh, but he tells himself it's fine because the bed stinks like the world's cheapest laundromat and Castiel doesn't.

He's tempted to just close his eyes and go back to sleep. Let the world twist in the wind for another hour or two. Instead, he sighs again. Then he flops onto his back and rubs at his sweaty face. He's got so much on his plate right now that gravy is dripping on the tablecloth.

"What time is it?" he asks.

"Ten after eight," Castiel replies. The ceiling light blinks on. "I was going to wake you at eight-thirty. Crowley wants to meet."

Dean sits up and rubs his face again. An episode of _M*A*S*H_ is playing on the TV — the one about a marathon poker game. He blinks at it for a second before asking, "How'd he find you?"

"He called _you_ ," Castiel says. When Dean just fishmouths at him, he reaches over and grabs Dean's phone off the nightstand. "He said your number is on your front window."

The landline number is on the front window, but Kevin usually forwards it on the nights he leaves early for school. Dean thumbs his phone unlocked and dismisses a reply to his "demon at the office" text that says, "WTF!!!!!!!" Crowley's number shows up as 666. He has two missed calls from Bobby and four missed calls from Sam. The voicemail icon at the top of his screen feels like an accusation.

"All right," Dean says, shifting to the edge of the bed so he can start on his boots. If his feet could talk they'd be screaming in his face. "What time does the ashy bastard wanna pow-wow?"

"Ten o'clock."

"Where?"

"At your office."

Once his boots are on, Dean stamps his feet a couple of times just to remind them who's boss. Then he heads over to the window and peers through the gap in the curtains. His breath fogs the dirty glass. The rain seems to be taking a coffee break, but the Starlite's parking lot is still waterlogged. Oil spots glint in the sliver of moonlight pushing through the clouds. The vacancy sign flickers tiredly beside the driveway, washing the passing cars an eerie blue.

Dean turns back to Castiel and says, "We should get going. I wanna be there early in case Crowley tries to pull something funny."

Castiel disappears. A heartbeat later, he reappears at Dean's side fully dressed. The TV and the ceiling light gutter out like candles.

Dean shakes his head and laughs. "You're a showy sonofabitch, you know that?"

A smile tugs Castiel's mouth. "Are you ready?"

"Yeah, lemme grab my bag." Before Dean moves, he glances out the window again. This time, he spots a dark-colored Prius across the street at the Lucky Lady. It's either charcoal gray or black, and its nose is pointed at the Starlite. "Shit. Looks like my shadow caught up with me."

"The woman from earlier?" Castiel asks dubiously. His tie is already crooked. "Are you certain?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure," Dean replies. He shoulders his bag and stashes his gun in his jeans. When Castiel still doesn't look convinced, he adds, "I'm really pretty sure. Now, c'mon. We can take the bathroom window and cut over —"

Castiel touches Dean's sleeve and asks, "Dean, do you trust me?"

"I, um." That's a loaded question if Dean's ever heard one. "Yeah, I — yeah, okay."

Castiel pulls Dean closer and wraps both arms around his waist. It's the last thing Dean expects; he grunts out a confused noise and jerks like he's been punched in the gut. Before he can say anything, something presses against his back. Something that feels heavy and soft at the same time. Something he can't see. Castiel's eyes flash silver. The air crackles around them, arcing and snapping like a live wire. The restless weight at Dean's back flutters and shifts. He feels a strange tug at the base of his spine, and then everything is swallowed by a blaze of blue-white light.

When the light flares out, Dean is standing in his office. He's standing _in his fucking office_. He blinks at the desk and the ugly carpet and the long, sooty smudge Crowley left on the wooden chair, but his brain just keeps returning the information to sender. He turns in a slow circle. Then he scrubs at his hair and mutters, "What the fuck was that?"

"Flight," Castiel says blandly. "You did well. Most humans vomit the first time."

Dean just stares at him for a second. Then he double-checks with his feet to make sure that they're on the ground where they belong and that the ground is actually there. His knees wobble a little. A cold sweat is itching at the back of his neck. He isn't one hundred percent sure he _isn't_ going to puke.

"I'm going upstairs," he says, just in case. "I want some coffee before he shows up."

He pauses outside his office to send Donna a text with all the information he has on the Prius. It isn't much, but the rental company will help narrow it down. Once he's done, he takes the stairs two at a time. The old wrought-iron railing is shakier than his knees. It needs a new coat of paint, and the dust covering it leaves a chalky smear on Dean's palm. The faded red carpet running up the steps is dusty too. He pays a cleaning service to vacuum the office and mop the hallway twice a week, but they never remember to do the stairs.

As he fishes his keys from his pocket, he hears something inside the loft. Footsteps. A murmur. The tired whisper-whine of old linoleum. It probably isn't Crowley; the braided rug just inside the door has a devil's trap spray-painted on its rough side. It isn't his shadow in the Prius, either. She didn't see Dean and Castiel skip out of the Starlite. That leaves the cops, but Dean figures Jody would call him first. Walker and Kubrick would wait outside so they could pin their warrant to his forehead.

He eases his key into the lock and gently turns the knob. The soft click echoes around the hallway. It feels like a bomb going off. Dean takes a deep breath. Then he kicks the door open and shoves his gun in Sam's face.

"Jesus Christ," he snarls, adrenaline thrumming under his skin. "You trying to get shot?"

"I was trying to make a pot of coffee," Sam says primly. He's wearing a plaid shirt and jeans instead of his detective get-up, but there's a bulge under his jacket the size of his sidearm. "Where the hell have you been all day?"

Dean drops his duffel on a chair and says, "Out."

He tucks the demon shank in his belt and stows his gun in his jeans. The beer bottles on his coffee table have been cleared away and replaced by several cartons of Chinese food and a six-pack of the pale ale Sam likes. The TV is on, the volume turned down to a low buzz. It's showing the same episode of _M*A*S*H_ Dean left behind at the Starlite. His gut gives a dangerous lurch.

He shuts his eyes for a second. Then he opens them with a sigh and says, "How long've you been here?"

"A couple of hours," Sam says, heading back into the kitchen. While he's filling the coffee pot at the sink, Dean swaps the French Roast for a bag of his regular stuff. His heartburn is already at four alarms and his stomach is ready to stage a revolution. Sam pours the water into the machine and continues, "You weren't answering your phone."

"Yeah, sorry about that," Dean says.

Sam side-eyes him while he measures out the coffee grounds like he wants an explanation, but Dean doesn't have one. He doesn't want to talk about falling asleep in Castiel's bed, or how good it had felt to have Castiel touching his hair. And the dream — fuck. He's dreamed about the fire before, but this time it took a weird turn before he woke up, weird enough that goose-pimples skitter down his arms if he thinks about it too hard.

Instead, he says, "I'm grabbing a shower." He fucking needs it after standing in the rain and crashing at a place as skeevy as the Starlite. The clock on the microwave reads eight-thirty-five. That's cutting it close, but if he hurries he can find out what's eating Sam and still get him out of here before Crowley shows up. "Just gimme twenty minutes."

"Dean."

"Fifteen minutes," Dean promises, heading for the bathroom.

 

+

 

Dean spends exactly fifteen minutes in the shower. For about half of that, he just stands hunched under the spray so it can beat against the knots in his shoulders and back. It doesn't really help. After he gets out, he spends another four minutes throwing on a fresh set of clothes. His feet still hate him, but he figures a clean pair of socks is a decent apology for putting his boots on again. The smell of coffee laps at the space under his bedroom door. He needs a shave, but it's already eight-fifty-four. He can practically hear Sam tapping his foot.

"All right," he says, walking into the kitchen. His hair is still damp. "What happened? You and Bobby called me like nine times."

Sam chews his lip. Then he sets his coffee aside and pulls his phone out of his pocket. After poking at it for a moment, he holds it up and asks, "Jody sent me these right before I called you. You know him?"

Dean squints at the phone, tilting Sam's wrist to get an angle without so much glare. It's a picture of a bald and bulky black guy in his late fifties. He's stiff as a board and dressed in a navy blue or black suit. White shirt, no tie. He's lying on a pile of garbage — slats from a broken pallet mixed with plastic bags and cigarette packs and soda cans. He's been stabbed in the chest once, straight through the sternum.

"Never seen him before," Dean says, shaking his head. "Where'd he turn up?"

"An abandoned warehouse a few blocks from the Bel-Aire. Some squatters found him this afternoon."

"Anything on him?"

"No ID. No wallet, no cash, no cards."

Dean looks at the guy again. He could've been robbed, but suits don't lurk around warehouse districts unless they're buying drugs, and suits who buy drugs don't usually make it into their late fifties. They cark out at their shiny mortgage loan desks at forty. Dean zooms the picture to get a better look at the stab wound. It's diamond-shaped and about the size of a broom handle. The hole in the guy's shirt is black around the edges, almost like it's burned. But the lighting is poor; it could just be dried blood.

"I don't get it. What's this gotta do with our demon problem?"

"He —" Sam cuts off with a frown. Then he swipes to the next picture and says, "Check this out."

It's a longer shot; whoever took it was standing at the guy's feet instead of zeroed in on his chest. Mud is spattered on his slacks. One of his legs is bent at an angle that makes Dean grit his teeth. Two ashy-black shadows are curving away from his body. One is unfurled across the garbage and onto concrete floor. The other is stretching up the corrugated wall at the guy's shoulder. They look like wings.

"What the fuck?" Dean asks.

Sam starts to say something, but Castiel picks that moment to blip into the living room. After a split-second of shock, Sam blurts out, "Who the hell are you?" and reaches for his gun.

Dean grabs his arm. "Sam, don't. It's — this is Castiel. The angel."

"What?" Sam looks at Castiel, then looks at Dean, then looks back at Castiel. The linoleum grouses under his feet. "You —"

"Hello," Castiel rumbles. He offers Sam his hand — stiffly, like he isn't sure he's doing it right. "You must be Dean's brother."

"Yeah. I — Sam. Sam Winchester."

They shake like two middle-schoolers meeting at a church social. Sam's face is a car crash between stunned and excited, like he's freaked out about meeting a real live angel but also itching to ask Castiel a bunch of nerdy questions about Heaven. Dean grabs a coffee mug out of his dish rack so they won't catch him rolling his eyes. He figures if they don't see it, it's a victimless crime. He fills his mug, fits the coffee pot back into the machine, and settles against the counter again.

He notices a wad of red cloth clutched in Castiel's other hand. He points at it with his coffee and asks, "What's that?"

"A hex bag," Castiel says, crushing it in his fist. It flames out with a swirl of sparks and a sharp, acrid smell, something like raw peppermint and singed hair. "I found it behind one of the pictures in your waiting room. Crowley must've hidden it before he spoke with you. It kept me from —" he stops himself. After a short pause, he huffs and starts over, saying, "He —"

Sam cuts him off again. "Who's Crowley?"

"Some bag of dicks demon," Dean explains, tapping his thumb on the rim of his mug. It's black and covered in cartoon magnifying glasses. Bobby gave it to him a couple of Christmases ago. "He came by the office earlier and roughed me up a little." Sam grumbles under his breath, but Dean waves him off before he can dive into one of his lectures on being careful. He says, "Show Castiel the dead guy."

Sam hesitates; the lecture is probably still in his mouth. Once he swallows it, he nods and says, "Yeah, okay," and hands Castiel his phone.

Castiel stares at the picture for a long time. He sighs. A strange, sad look crosses his face.

Dean is pretty sure he knows the answer, but he needs to be sure. Quietly, he asks. "You know him?"

"Yes. He — his name was Uriel."

Dean drinks his coffee while he waits for the other shoe to drop. It's a pinch weaker than what he usually brews for himself, but it tastes good after all the mud he's had all day. Castiel's shoulders hunch a little, but he doesn't say anything. And he doesn't say anything. And he doesn't say anything. A car honks its horn down on the street. The bathroom sink drips: _plink-plink-plink_. The hex bag's ghost itches Dean's nose.

Eventually, he clears his throat and asks, "An angel?"

"Yes."

"What —?" Sam shows his teeth like he doesn't really want to know the answer. "What can kill an angel?"

"Another angel, obviously."

Dean whips his head around so fast something pops in his neck. Crowley is standing in the doorway, his shoulder leaned against the jamb. Behind him, the hallway's yellow-white morgue glare flickers and hums. He's dressed in the same black suit and black tie he wore earlier. His hands are stuffed in the pockets of his coat. Carefully, Dean sets his coffee mug on the counter and eases the demon shank out of his belt.

Sam ducks his mouth close to Dean's ear and whispers, "Demon?"

"Uh-huh."

"This is cozy," Crowley says, glancing around the loft. He lingers on the scuffed floors and the second-hand couch. He taps his fingers on the thrift-store table beside the door. "Mind if I join you?"

The clock on the microwave insists it's only nine-seventeen. Dean says, "You're early."

"No time like the present." Crowley starts to step inside but stops short. He toes at the braided rug. When it folds over and flashes its bright orange devil's trap, he scoffs and walks around it. The door slams closed behind him, hard enough to upset the walls. After straightening his tie, he looks at Dean and says, "You lied to me, Buttercup. When I asked you where our feathered friend was, you said you didn't know."

A sleek, silver blade slides out of Castiel's sleeve. He puts himself in front of Dean and says, "Crowley, if you hurt him again I swear I'll —"

"Relax, Angel," Crowley says, holding up his hands. He moves to one of the chairs and rests his elbow on the back. "I'm not here to hurt anyone. This whole Staff thing is getting a bit hot. I think it's time we sit down and talk it over like civilized people so we don't have to keep killing each other like barbarians."

Dean drops his arm and holds the demon shank against his thigh. "Yeah, all right. Talk."

"Wait," Sam says, glancing at Dean. "What's the staff?"

Crowley studies Sam for a moment. Then he looks at Dean and asks, "Who's the moose?"

"My brother."

Crowley hums thoughtfully. Then he wags a finger at Sam and says, "Sam, isn't it? I heard you cashed in and joined the boys in blue."

Sam crosses his arms. "Yeah, I did. But I still remember my Latin."

Sighing, Crowley mutters, "Everyone is so touchy today. The staff, Sam, is the Staff of Moses. A heavenly weapon capable of blighting crops and killing firstborn sons. It's been misplaced. The angels want it back, for obvious reasons. My side just wants it... also for obvious reasons." He thins his mouth and turns to Castiel. "Where is it?"

Castiel lifts his blade slightly and says, "I don't know."

Crowley sighs again. "You both keep telling me that, but for some reason I don't believe it. You —" he points at Castiel "— you've been searching for it for years. And you —" he points at Dean "— one of the demons involved in this Easter egg hunt was working for you." Pausing, he cocks his head to the side. "Right now, this charming little hovel of yours is being watched."

"What?" Dean asks. He glances at the kitchen window, even though it opens to the narrow pedestrian alley between his building and the tattoo shop. Nightfall and the rain have dulled the adjacent bricks to a heavy brown. "A woman in a tan coat? Ugly scarf? Uglier car?"

Crowley nods. "She's parked at the market across the street."

"Who is she?" Castiel demands, his hand flexing around the grip of his blade. He takes a step toward Crowley, but Dean catches his arm. Instead of shrugging Dean off, he settles a fraction before asking, "Who does she work for?"

"I don't know _who_ she is, but I do have suspicions about her employer."

Dean glances out the window again. He nearly expects to find the chick sitting on his fire escape. To see the outline of her floppy hat in the shadows behind the glass. But there's nothing out there — just a spider-plant Dean forgets to water and an old patio chair his dad had used when he'd wanted to smoke without Sam complaining about it stinking up the loft. The sodium light in the alley casts a pale yellow glow along the window's horizon. The rain is back on the clock, pattering against everything with a sound like buckshot.

Dean asks, "Who?"

"The collector I mentioned earlier."

"The religious nut?"

"Yes," Crowley says. He slides his elbow off the back of the chair and brushes a piece of lint off his shoulder. "I told you, he was frantic when Castiel stole it."

"I didn't steal it," Castiel insists. Dean's hand is still fisted in Castiel's sleeve; he feels a jolt of furious tension chase itself up Castiel's arm. "Ellsworth had it. I don't know if he stole it himself or if he obtained it from someone else. But he had it. That's why I came here."

"All right, fine. Let's say Ellsworth stole it." Crowley waves his hand lazily. "You have it now."

"No, I don't."

Crowley huffs out an incredulous noise. "Do you really expect me to believe that?" His voice is suddenly edged like a knife, and an angry flush is seething up from his beard. Dean moves the demon shank to his hip. Beside him, Sam shifts his weight, like he's gearing up for a fight. "Between parties interested in the Staff and the police, Ellsworth's flop has been searched twenty times. It isn't there. _You_ have it. You took it after you killed Ellsworth."

Castiel shakes his head. "I didn't kill Ellsworth. He was —"

"What?" Dean asks sharply. A new headache is starting to throb in his temples. A muscle tics in Castiel's jaw, but he doesn't say anything. Dean tugs his sleeve until he turns around. "You told me you did."

Crowley clucks his tongue. "Really, Angel? Telling lies to your only friend?" Turning to Dean, he continues, "Castiel didn't kill Ellsworth because Ellsworth was already dead. Uriel killed him. When Castiel got to the Bel-Aire, he caught Uriel sacking Ellsworth's room, and — well." An ugly smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. "Like I said, it takes an angel to kill one."

"Damn it, Castiel. You —"

"Uriel wanted the Staff for himself. He was —"

"So you killed him?" Dean snaps. He's still holding Castiel's sleeve; he can't make himself let go. "Just so you could take it upstairs yourself and get right with God?"

"No. That's not —" Castiel cuts off like a record scratch and looks upward. His eyes widen as something begins whispering around the room. Something so furious and cold it makes Dean shiver. The windows start to rattle. Castiel grabs Dean and Sam by the fronts of their shirts and hurls them out of the kitchen. "Get out! Get out right now!"

Dean stumbles and crashes to his knees and pitches shoulder-first into the couch. Wincing, he rolls over. Sam grips his arm and pulls him up, but before he gets to his feet, two blinding pillars of light scream down through the ceiling. Castiel takes a step back. He looks over his shoulder. Looks at Dean. His eyes spark silver and a second blade drops out of his other sleeve. He looks at Dean again. Then he spins the blade in his hand and tosses it at Crowley.

"Get them out of here alive and I'll give you the Staff."

"Deal," Crowley barks. He waves the couch out of his way and darts a glance at the door. As it flies open, he points the blade at Dean and Sam. "Come on, kids. Let's go."

Dean doesn't move. He — fuck. He can't. A hollow ache is digging under his ribs. "No. I ain't leaving him here."

"It won't do any good," Crowley insists. The walls are shaking, hard enough that plaster dust is raining down from the ceiling. The light above Crowley's head explodes. He waves again; something like a hand bruises into Dean's arm and yanks him a few steps back. "You can't help him. So help yourself. Help your brother."

Dean touches Sam's wrist and jerks his head toward the door. "Go on. Go."

"No. No way."

A silver-white gust of wind shrieks past Dean ear. The door slams shut, and Crowley snarls, "Great. Now _none_ of us are getting out of here."

The pillars of light blaze brighter for a second. Then they burn out with a deafening electric ripple, leaving two guys behind in their wakes. Two angels. One is tall and pale and thin, hook-nosed in an Ichabod Crane kind of way; the other is shorter with dark hair and dark eyes. They look like tax attorneys, but they're also wholly inhuman in a way that makes Dean's skin crawl. The air around them shimmers like a heat-mirage. The lines of their bodies are too sharp, too precise. Dean thinks he could cut himself just by touching them. Terror hammers in his chest.

"Jonah. Efram." Castiel's voice is full of broken glass and razor-wire. "Why are you here?"

"You know why," the taller one — Jonah — says. "We've come for the Staff."

Castiel hefts his blade slightly. "I don't have it."

"Castiel," Efram says, his mouth thinning. "Lying will not save you."

"I don't have it."

The angels exchange a glance. They seem a little less alien now. Dean doesn't know if they've dialed back the theatrics or if he's finally wrapped his head around what he's seeing. Fear-sweat is beading on his forehead. Sam's elbow is digging into his side. Dean sucks in a breath. A thin thread of sulfur is weaving through the ozone-bite in the air.

Jonah makes an irritated sound and says, "You either have the Staff or know of its location. We will take you to Heaven for questioning. If you come quietly, we will not harm your companions. Even —" his lip curls "— the demon."

Castiel looks at Dean. Then he rushes at Jonah, swinging his blade.

"Bugger," Crowley hisses, his eyes flashing red.

He starts to ditch his meatsuit. The smoke pouring out of his mouth is a bloody maroon instead of black. Efram zaps out of the kitchen and zaps back in near the door. He catches the smoke in his hand as Crowley's body begins sagging to the floor and shoves it back in. Crowley comes back to himself with a gasp. His eyes burn red again, and Efram wraps his other hand around his throat.

Castiel grunts in pain. Blood is staining the corner of his mouth. Jonah punches him in the jaw. Punches him again. Castiel rears back, then rights himself and lunges in. Their blades clang with a sound like bells. They circle each other, putting Dean at Jonah's back. Castiel clocks him square in the gut. He jerks back with a groan, then straightens. When he cocks his arm back for another punch, Dean runs at him and grabs him around the neck.

Snarling, Castiel jabs with his blade. Jonah twists away; the blow slices up his arm. Blue-white light streams from the tear in his jacket. He wrenches Dean off his back with a handful of Dean's collar and sends Dean flying across the room. Dean slams into the fridge, knocking his head hard enough that he bites his lip. His vision swims as he stumbles to his feet.

Sam shouts as Dean is wiping the blood from his mouth. He sinks his fist into Efram's kidney and cracks his elbow against the back of Efram's head. Efram flings him away with a gesture, then turns back to Crowley. His hand is still around Crowley's throat. Crowley's face is purple, and reddish smoke is wisping from his nose and mouth. He swings his blade. It grazes Efram's side, catching in his jacket before clattering to the floor.

Castiel's blade clanks against Jonah's again. And again. Jonah fists his hand in Castiel's tie and yanks him close. His next blade-jab is aimed at Castiel's neck, but Castiel sweeps his feet away and they both crash to the floor. Castiel crushes his hand around Jonah's jaw. He bashes Jonah's head against the floor once. Twice. Jonah plants a foot and flips them and Castiel smashes into the stove. His blade skitters away and rolls into Dean's feet.

Dean picks it up, his head swimming again as he bends down. It's lighter than it looks and balanced oddly, but it's all Dean's got. He squeezes his hand around the grip and charges at Jonah as Jonah reaches Castiel and starts dragging him to his feet. He shoves Jonah around with a handful of his jacket and stabs at Jonah's chest. His dizziness makes him swing to wide; the blade sinks into the meat of Jonah's shoulder. A gout of light follows the blade when Dean pulls back.

Jonah clips him in the side of the head. Ears ringing, Dean stumbles back a couple of steps. Someone screams. It's a woman's voice; Jody's standing in the doorway with her gun out. Sam shouts her name. Efram punches Sam in the chest, then knocks Jody back against the door jamb. Jonah clips Dean again. Over Jonah's shoulder, Dean sees Castiel drawing something on the kitchen floor in blood. Dean punches Jonah in the jaw. It feels like he's bashing his fist into a concrete slab.

Dean slams into the fridge again. He hits the floor right next to Castiel. The scar on his shoulder is throbbing harder than his head. When he looks up, Jonah is standing over him. Blood is dripping from his nose and light is still seeping from the hole in his shoulder. He bends and catches Dean around the throat. Castiel grates out Dean's name. Then he grabs Dean's sleeve and slaps his bloody hand to the thing he drew on the floor.

The angels flicker out with a blazing wash of light and a strange shift in the air, enough reverse pressure that Dean's ears pop. The throb in his shoulder starts to dull. Castiel tugs Dean up until he's sitting against the fridge. It hums tiredly against his back. Castiel shifts closer, then cups Dean's jaw in his hand. Dean gasps as the same bright, white-hot feeling from earlier courses through his body. His hand curls around Castiel's wrist, heat and light pulsing against his thumb as it brushes Castiel's palm. Castiel rests his forehead against Dean's for a moment, then sighs and gets to his feet.

"Sam," Jody says. Her voice is shaky but there's still plenty of steel in it. "What the hell is going on?"

Dean grabs the counter beside the fridge and heaves himself up. The loft is a wreck. Glancing around, he asks, "Where's Crowley?"

"He skipped out as soon as the angels —" Sam cuts off and looks at Castiel. "What happened to the angels?"

Castiel still has blood on his hand. He frowns at it for a second before saying, "I sent them back to Heaven."

"Angels—? What—?" Jody fists her hand in Sam's sleeve. Blood is smeared down her neck and under her jaw. "Sam —"

"Sammy," Dean says, walking toward them. "You wanna give her the talk or you want me to do it?"

Sam tells Dean, "No, I got it." Then he turns to Jody and says, "I can explain. I just, um." Wincing, he touches his nose. It's swollen enough to be broken. "Just give me a minute."

Castiel edges past Dean and reaches for Sam's face. Sam's eyes widen. Before he can duck away, Castiel's fingers brush across his forehead. Light flares from Castiel's palm, and Sam shivers and grits his teeth. He whines out a noise that sounds like a dying transmission. Once the light fades, he sucks in a breath and shakes his head like he's got water in his ear.

His nose looks normal again. After poking at it a few times, he smiles at Castiel and says, "Thanks."

Castiel looks at Jody, but she takes a step back and puts her hand on her holster. "You just stay right there, buddy."

"He ain't gonna hurt you," Dean says.

Jody splits a long, narrow look between Castiel and Dean. Instead of sticking around for his full share of it, Dean heads into the kitchen. He needs a drink. As he's grabbing his bottle of Maker's Mark from the cabinet above the fridge, Jody says, "Look, it's just a bump. I'm going to let Sam explain first. If what he says doesn't sound too crazy, then... maybe."

"Yeah, okay," Sam says, running his hand through his hair. "I'm going to make some coffee. Then I'll tell you all about it."

Jody gives him an eyebrow. "Really, Winchester? Coffee? I think this is a whiskey conversation."

"Here," Dean says, passing her the bottle. "Just save me a coupla shots."

 

+

 

The loft looks like a tornado ripped through the middle of it. The bookcases flanking Sam's old room are overturned, one tipped sideways against the wall and the other lying face down on the floor. The braided rug is lipped over the bottom of the dead one, still flashing its bright orange devil's trap. The chairs are scattered around the room; one is bleeding stuffing from a diagonal slash scoring the seat. The thrift-store table is in pieces. What's left of it is piled beside the door. The splintered wood is jumbled with the stuff that had sat on it — a picture of his mom, the box holding his dad's service medals, a brass key-bowl he'd never used.

After staring at the mess for about five minutes, Dean decides it can wait until morning. Maybe not even _tomorrow_ morning — just _a_ morning. Somehow, the coffee table weathered the storm — Chinese food and pale ale included — so Dean pushes the couch back where it belongs and flops down at one end. He takes his boots off, puts his feet up, and turns on his laptop. Once the laptop stops pretending it can't find the building's wi-fi, he downloads a blank pleading template from a DIY law website.

The TV also weathered the storm; it had been hunkered down in the far corner of the room. _M*A*S*H_ is still playing because it's a few minutes after ten and _M*A*S*H_ plays from eight to midnight in pretty much every time zone in America. Now it's the episode about Margaret asking for a transfer to another unit. The volume is less than a buzz, so Dean doesn't bother trying to find the remote. He eats cold Kung Pao chicken with one hand and pecks at his motion to dismiss with the other. A few lines in, Castiel sits beside him. He's down to his dress shirt and slacks, and he's drinking coffee from a white mug with cat faces on it. Dean has no idea where it came from, unless it got mixed in with his crap when he moved out of Lisa's place.

Castiel doesn't say anything. He just sips his coffee and watches _M*A*S*H: the Silent Movie_ and gives off heat like a weird furnace. Everything else in the loft is colder than ice. Dean can hear the building's old heater humming, and he can smell it cooking all the dust Jonah and Efram stirred up, but it's barely making a dent in the chill. He inches closer to Castiel because that's faster and easier than getting up and grabbing a blanket. Fatigue is swamping him; he bleats out a pair of yawns. He manages to hide the first one behind his fist, but the second one yanks at his jaw like a fishhook and leaves him a little wet-eyed.

"You should sleep," Castiel says quietly.

Dean rubs his face and nods. "In a minute. I gotta do this court crap. And I —" he glances at Sam's old room "— I wanna see how _that_ pans out. I'm kinda worried she's gonna murder him."

"I doubt that. She seems fond of him." Castiel shifts slightly. His thigh brushes Dean's. After a pause, he tips his head to the side and adds, "She's angry because he never told her. She thinks he doesn't trust her."

"It ain't that," Dean says, leaning back against the cushions. The couch whines like _it's_ had the hard day. "It's just — you know. Most people —" He shrugs and frowns at his laptop.

"Most people don't want to know."

Dean nods again and hides another yawn. Sometimes, a guy gets attacked by a vamp and he ends up hitting the road with a machete. Sometimes. Usually, he just tries to forget it ever happened. He tells himself it had all been a bad joke or a bad dream or a bad trip. He swears he's never drinking that much tequila again. Whatever it takes — as long as he doesn't have to face the fact that a monster climbed through his bedroom window one night.

Castiel hums and sips his coffee. He's cradling the mug in both hands like a toddler using a big-boy cup for the first time. His hair is all over the place. He shifts again, pressing his thigh against Dean's from hip to knee. The slow, steady warmth coming off him makes Dean want to curl up and go to sleep for a week. He tries to focus on his motion to dismiss, but his eyes are so tired that the laptop's glare feels like an icepick to the temple. Instead, he sinks deeper into the couch and watches Castiel.

Eventually, he asks, "Does that stuff even do anything for you? The caffeine, I mean."

"No," Castiel says, taking another sip. It shows off more of his throat than Dean should be looking at. "I just like the taste."

"Huh." That's a weird thought — an angel doing something for just the hell of it. Dean nudges him and points at the Chinese food. "You want some of this? There's a ton of it, and Princess Sam won't eat it after it gets cold."

Castiel briefly considers the spread on the coffee table. Then he sets his mug down and takes the carton Dean is holding. He fishes out a chunk of chicken with his fingers. After chewing thoughtfully, he says, "All I taste is molecules." He wrinkles his nose a little. Then he licks the sauce from his fingers and continues, "I taste the chicken, but also the corn the chicken ate and the water it drank. And I taste those things down to their atoms."

He almost sounds disappointed. He also has sauce at the corner of his mouth. Dean clears his throat and says, "It's, uh — it's better when it's hot."

Castiel hums again and wraps both hands around the carton. His palms flare blue-white for a split-second. When he passes it back, the chicken is steaming. The smell of peanuts and garlic stings Dean's nose.

"How do you do that? When you —" Dean waves his hand around. "What is that?"

"My grace. It's the power and light granted to me by God. It's what makes me an angel."

Dean doesn't know what to say to that. Because — yeah. Angel. The guy might be barefoot and fuck-haired and drinking coffee out of a cat mug, but he's still from Heaven. And Dean's using him as a hot-water bottle. He's practically sitting in Castiel's lap just because he's cold. He sighs at himself under his breath. Then he props the laptop on the arm of the couch so he can scoot over and give Castiel some space. So he can give _himself_ some space.

Right as he starts to move, Sam's door creaks open. Sam comes out first, looking exhausted and kind of white around the mouth. Jody must've put him through the wringer. He blinks at Dean and Castiel; they're still sitting too close and Castiel's arm is stretched across the back of the couch. Before Sam's eyebrows can make a comment, Jody squeezes into the room. Sam's giant shoulders are hogging the whole doorway, so she huffs and elbows him in the side. Then she narrows her eyes at Dean.

Crossing her arms, she says, "Really, Winchester? Monsters? And you never told me?"

"You wouldn't've believed me." Dean sets his laptop on the coffee table. He's only fooling himself about getting any work done tonight. "No one does. Not 'til they see it."

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again and sighs. "So... Alastair and Ellsworth?"

"Demons, yeah."

"And that story you told me about picking up a guy at the bar?"

Castiel makes a very quiet noise. Heat burns under Dean's jaw as he admits, "That was a dodge. I was down in Oklahoma killing some ghouls." Her eyes widen slightly. Dean gives her half a smile and says, "You picked a hell of a night to invite yourself over, Mills. Lemme guess... you wanted to ask me about a dead guy in a warehouse."

"Yes. Sam said he's an angel, but I —"

"Sam is correct," Castiel says. His voice is brittle around the edges. "Uriel's death is regrettable, but it was necessary."

Jody gives him a look that's at least two parts disbelief. Then she gets her detective face on and frowns like she wants the rest of the story. Castiel doesn't say anything. He just grabs his mug, drains it, and blips himself into the kitchen. Jody cranes her neck a little and watches him refill his mug. The rain pounds against the window behind him. The fire escape rattles and groans with the wind.

Before the silence really starts making Dean itch, Sam jerks his head toward the door and says, "We should get going. We've got to be in bright and early."

"I'll accompany you," Castiel says. In an eyeblink, he's standing at the door and wearing his shoes. "I want to make sure Crowley isn't waiting downstairs."

As Sam and Castiel file out, Jody turns back to Dean and says, "There's a warrant coming through for your office. Either tomorrow or the next day. So if you've got anything hinky down there, you better stash it at Singer's tonight."

"Okay," Dean says. His office is clean, and Bobby's place is too obvious anyway. If he needs to dump his hunting stuff, he's got a lock up over the Missouri line in a fake name. "Thanks, Jody."

Once they're gone, Dean makes himself get off the couch. He's old enough now that falling asleep there would mean hobbling around like a geezer in the morning. His heartburn is down to about two alarms, so he shovels the last of the Kung Pao chicken into his mouth without really bothering to chew it. Then he gathers up the other cartons and puts them in the fridge. The kitchen isn't quite as wrecked as the living area, but the copper-tang of old blood is lurking in the air like cheap cologne. Castiel's art project is still smeared on the floor. Dean sidesteps it as he texts Kevin to say the office is all clear.

Donna calls right after he hits send. He picks up and says, "Hey, Donna."

"Deano," she says brightly. She must still be at the office; the white noise behind her is all hushed voices and keyboard clacks. "I was kind of surprised to hear from you. Word is you're on the wrong side of the law these days."

"You know me. I'm always in a reasonable amount of trouble."

Donna laughs heartily. "Well, that's the truth. I don't know much, but what I _have_ heard sounds pretty bonzo. Weekend job go sideways, did it?"

"Something like that." The spoonful of coffee Castiel left in the pot is starting to burn. Dean switches off the machine and leans back against the counter. "You dig up anything on that car?"

"You betcha. I — oh, I had it here a second ago." She pauses; Dean hears papers shuffling on the other end of the line. Then she says, "You ready to write? I'd email it to you, but I'm thinking this conversation never happened."

"Hang on." Dean digs around in the drawer at his hip until he turns up an old receipt and the dry-erase marker for the fridge board he never uses. "Okay. Shoot."

"Alrighty. It's a 2014 Prius. Magnetic grey metallic. Kansas license plate 3-7-3-J-W-L. It was rented from the Avis on Twenty-Third by a Mina Harker out of Twilight, Pennsylvania. Her ID went through clean, but we both know that doesn't mean anything these days."

"Yeah," Dean says, snorting under his breath. "When did she roll into town?"

"She picked up the car Friday afternoon. It's due back at the end of the week." Donna pauses again. Then she sighs and says, "Does this have anything to do with the sticky spot you're in?"

"Maybe," Dean says. His jaw twitches as he swallows a yawn. "Thanks, Donna. I appreciate it."

"Any time, Deano."

Dean hangs up and studies the receipt. The name Mina Harker is ringing a few bells, but those bells aren't playing a song he knows well enough to sing. His laptop is asleep, so he pulls Google up on his phone. A quick search tells him Twilight, Pennsylvania is a township in the southwest corner of the state. Dean will eat one of his boots if "Mina Harker" has ever been there. _No one_ has ever been there. Its population is a bare handful over two hundred. Its Wikipedia entry has a picture of two horses grazing at its main intersection.

Sighing, Dean folds the receipt into his wallet and shuffles into the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth. His reflection looks rough. Castiel's mojo got rid of the scrapes and bruises, but his skin is waxy and the bags under his eyes could fill up a hotel luggage cart. He still needs a shave. He slaps some water on his face like that will do anything about it. Then he heads into his bedroom so he can pretend to sleep for a couple hours.

 

+

 

Dean's door has been shut for the better part of two days, so his room is stuffy as hell. The musty chug of the heater itches his nose and nags the back of his throat. He glances outside, but the rain is coming down hard and the wind has forced it into a slant. Cracking the window enough to bring in some air will make a puddle the size of Lake Michigan in under an hour. Sighing, he strips down to his t-shirt and boxer-briefs and tosses his clothes in the direction of laundry pile. When he turns around, Castiel is perched on the foot of the bed like statue.

Dean only jumps about halfway out of his skin. He hisses, "Jesus Christ," and scrubs a hand through his hair. His heart is going to give out if this kind of shit keeps up. "I'm getting you a fucking bell." He takes a few deep breaths. Once his pulse is somewhat back to normal, he asks, "Jody let you heal her?"

"Yes."

"Cool," Dean says, glancing at his laundry pile. He feels like he should put on some pants, but his only pair of pajamas is buried so deep he'd need an archaeologist to find it. And there's zero chance they don't stink like dirty clothes. "And Crowley?"

"I didn't see him," Castiel replies. He's barefoot again. "Nor did I see the woman he claimed was watching your office."

"Huh." Dean isn't surprised. Anyone with half a brain would've hightailed it as soon as the fireworks started, whatever they're getting paid. He sits beside Castiel and rubs his tired eyes. "What about those angels? You think they're coming back tonight?"

Castiel pauses. Then he shakes his head and says, "No. Right now they're being punished for returning without the Staff."

"Really? I mean, it's not like you gave 'em a choice."

"Heaven deals in absolutes," Castiel says tonelessly. "Jonah and Efram were ordered to retrieve the Staff and bring me in for questioning. They didn't. Their superiors won't care why."

"Wow." Dean whistles through his teeth. "Heaven sounds like a nightmare. You really wanna go back there?"

Castiel looks at Dean for a moment. Then he looks away and says, "I — yes. Angels belong in Heaven."

That's not exactly a dark horse answer, but it still lands like a slap to the face. Stung, Dean shifts a little and mutters, "Okay, yeah. So where's the Staff?"

A horrible looks twists Castiel's face. He stands. The air rustles around him like he's about to zap out. After a short, tight silence, he grates out a furious noise and demands, "How many times must I tell you that I don't know? You said you trust me, but you —"

"Hey, an hour ago you told Crowley you'd give it to him!"

Castiel glares at him for another moment. Then his body slumps like his anger is bleeding out all at once. Softly, he says, "I wanted you out of danger." He lifts his hand. He stops short of touching Dean's face, but Dean nearly leans into it anyway. His heart hammers in his chest. He closes his eyes as Castiel says, "He wouldn't have helped you without an incentive, and the Staff is the only thing he cares about."

Dean takes a breath. And another. He's not stupid; he recognizes the warm ache blooming under his ribs. But he can't — fuck. He just _can't_. He stands with a sigh and walks over to the dresser. Walks away from Castiel. He digs his nails into the chipped wood until he feels a bit more grounded.

Finally, he asks, "What about Uriel? You think he had it?"

"I don't know," Castiel says. He paces the sliver of space at the foot of Dean's bed. "He insisted he didn't, but I — I'm not sure I believe that."

Dean rests his elbow on the dresser and rubs his face. "What happened?"

Castiel hesitates. The air stirs again. A sound like feathers whispers against everything in the room. Before it really settles, Castiel says, "Crowley's guess was nearly correct. I made the appointment with Ellsworth. When I arrived, I found him dead. Uriel was searching his room. We argued, and he flew away from me. I eventually located him at the warehouse. We argued again, and I —" He cuts off with a sigh.

"And you killed him," Dean finishes slowly. Turning away, Castiel nods. Dean drums his fingers on the dresser and frowns at his back. The pieces don't fit right. When Castiel doesn't say anything else, he asks, "Why? I know you think this thing is your ticket back upstairs or whatever, but you coulda — I don't know. Taken it up there together."

Rain lashes against the bedroom's tiny window. Lightning flashes behind the clouds, briefly washing the sky purple and white. Dean counts in his head; he gets to six-one-thousand before thunder booms in the distance. A car alarm starts blaring. Dean yawns into his hand and blinks at the ceiling while Castiel paces in front of his bed. He needs to sleep, but he's not sure he can. He's not sure of anything right now.

Gravely, Castiel says, "Uriel didn't want to take the Staff to Heaven. He wanted to give it to Hell."

"What —?" Dean sputters out a noise. "That's — what?"

"Uriel believed the earth had become godless," Castiel explains. His voice is like a funeral dirge. "He wanted to give the Staff to Hell so it could create plagues and blights. So it could create chaos. Then the angels could come down and perform miracles. Restore order." He gestures in a way that's bigger than the four walls of Dean's room. "He believed we could restore humanity's faith."

"By giving Hell the juice to make frog rains and blood rivers?" Dean scoffs and shakes his head. "That's nuts."

"Yes, it is. And exceedingly dangerous. But when I told him that, he just —" Castiel shrugs and sits on the bed. "He laughed at me. He said I'd been down here too long. He said I wouldn't understand."

Dean walks over to him. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Castiel's shoulders hunch slightly. After another tight, horrible silence, he says, "I was ashamed. Uriel was one of my brethren, but he was also — he was a friend, if such a thing is possible among angels. We fought together for millennia. He rarely came to earth, but in recent years he found this garden he liked. The Jardim Botânico, in Brazil. He would go there to seek revelation. We —" his voice hitches. "We prayed there together many times."

Another silence. Dean knows what he's supposed to fill it with — "It wasn't your fault." Or "You didn't have a choice." Or "He was dangerous." All of that's true, but it's also the kind of Hallmark crap that makes Dean want to punch a wall. He doesn't think hearing it has ever made anyone feel better. So he keeps his mouth shut. He just stands there and breathes Castiel in.

Castiel's head dips a little. Dean reaches out and pats his shoulder. Squeezes. Eventually, Castiel sighs out a quiet "I'm okay" noise. Then he shifts sideways like he's making room for Dean to sit down. Dean's hand ends up at the back of his neck. His hair is soft and thick, and Dean's fingers curl into it before he really realizes what he's doing. His thumb brushes the hollow behind Castiel's ear, and Castiel rumbles out a lower, darker noise.

He palms Dean's hip. His thumb teases under the hem of Dean's t-shirt. After a moment, he pulls Dean closer and leans in, resting his forehead against Dean's chest. He murmurs something Dean can't hear, and his other hand skims up the back of Dean's thigh. Dean bites the inside of his cheek. A slow shiver twists around his spine.

His fingers are still carding through Castiel's hair, but he clears his throat and says, "We ain't doing this."

"Why not?"

"Do you —?" Dean clears his throat again. "Have you — have you even, uh."

"No. I've never wanted it before."

That only makes Dean jumpier. A thread of panic weaves through the heat gathering in his gut. This is a dumb idea — and Dean would know; he's had plenty of dumb ideas over the years — but his fingers are _still_ stroking through Castiel's hair. A fever-bright flush is burning in Castiel's cheeks. He's holding both of Dean's hips now. His breath is fanning through Dean's t-shirt and tickling Dean's skin. Dumb idea. But when Castiel tugs lightly, Dean slides to his knees and runs his hands up Castiel's thighs.

They look at each other for a minute. Castiel's eyes are wide and dark, and his lips are parted, just enough for Dean to see the slick hint of his tongue. He cups Castiel's jaw in his hand. Rubs his thumb at the corner of Castiel's mouth. Castiel turns into it, letting it drag across his lip. Letting his teeth brush the pad of Dean's thumb. Dean shivers again. Then he pulls Castiel in and kisses him.

It's soft at first. Soft and a little awkward. Castiel freezes for a split-second; he bunches Dean's t-shirt in his hand, and a surprised sound shudders in his throat. Dean leans back to give him some space, but he follows, almost chasing Dean's mouth. He curves his hand around the back of Dean's neck and breathes out against Dean's jaw. When they kiss again, he relaxes into it. Opens up for it. He hums Dean's name and flicks his tongue along Dean's lower lip. His foot brushes Dean's thigh.

Dean kisses Castiel's mouth and the point of Castiel's chin. He drags another kiss down the stubble-rough line of Castiel's jaw, and he lets his teeth graze the spot just below Castiel's ear. He sucks a mark there because it makes Castiel pant and tug at his hair. The mark starts to fade as soon as Dean pulls away, but Castiel's eyes flutter closed. He tips his head back like he wants Dean to do it again. Dean bites kisses down the side of his neck. Sucks another mark at the dip of Castiel's throat.

"Dean," Castiel says, his voice an urgent thrum. "Dean."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean doesn't know what he's agreeing to. Doesn't care. He fumbles with the buttons of Castiel's shirt and says, "C'mon. Get this off."

Castiel lets Dean shrug the shirt over his shoulders, but once it's pooled around his elbows, the air shifts and it disappears out of Dean's hands. Dean blinks and huffs out a quiet laugh, but Castiel just wraps his arms around Dean's neck and draws him in for another kiss. Dean thumbs Castiel's nipples and palms the curve of Castiel's ribs. The trail of hair arrowing away from his navel is soft and sparse. Dean scratches his nails through it before pulling open his belt and popping the button on his slacks.

Castiel freezes again. Dean backs off a little, sliding his hands down to Castiel's knees, but when he looks at Castiel's face, Castiel's eyes are nearly black. The flush heating his cheeks has spread down to his jaw, and his tongue is waiting on the well of his lip. He murmurs, "Dean," and reaches for Dean's face. His fingers skim down Dean's jaw and trail across Dean's lips. They pause there, so Dean opens up and wets the tips of them with his tongue. Then he sucks them in — first two, then three. He sits back on his heels and takes them in as far as he can, curling his tongue around them until his mouth and chin are slick with spit. Until Castiel is fucking them into his mouth.

He brushes his other hand through Dean's hair, pausing at the back of Dean's neck before palming the curve of Dean's shoulder. He rasps out a moan that digs straight underneath Dean's skin. Dean nips at the pads of Castiel's fingers and knuckles Castiel's dick through the front of his slacks. It's a soft touch, barely a tease, but Castiel moans again and his hips snap off the bed. Dean grabs the waist of Castiel's slacks and tugs. The bed creaks. Then the air rustles and Dean's hands are sliding over skin.

Castiel's dick is as gorgeous as the rest of him. Dean runs his fingers over it, making Castiel's hips snap off the bed again. He rubs his thumb through the precome beading at the head. Then he leans in, nudging Castiel's legs apart with his shoulders. His knees are probably going to file for divorce tomorrow, but he doesn't give a shit. He kisses the inside of Castiel's thigh. Bites a little. Then he noses into the crease of Castiel's hip and kisses him again. His dick is a hot streak against Dean's cheek. He plants another kiss at the base of it. He mouths up the length, swirling his tongue around the head before sucking it in.

"Oh," Castiel says quietly. His thighs are already shaking. "Oh. Dean, you — _oh_."

Dean draws up and sinks back down. Lets Castiel fill his mouth and push against his tongue. Castiel shivers and knots both hands in Dean's hair. His heel bumps the small of Dean's back. Dean wraps his hand around the base of Castiel's dick, stroking up to meet his mouth as he sucks in and in and in. Heat is coiled in Dean's gut like a snake; he's harder than a rock from the salt-taste of Castiel's skin and the way Castiel keeps breathing his name. He rubs himself through his boxer-briefs. An electric jolt of want sparks through him, and he chokes out a noise that makes Castiel gasp and tug his hair.

The bed creaks again. Castiel slides a hand down to Dean's jaw and rubs his thumb over Dean's cheek. Dean turns his head a little so Castiel can feel the shape of himself. So he can feel Dean swallow him down. Castiel moans and thrusts into Dean's mouth. His fingers twist in Dean's hair. The lamp on the nightstand flickers when he comes. Dean sucks him through it, soft and easy and slow. Doesn't pull back until Castiel's thigh muscles start to jump. Then he tucks his hot face into the crease of Castiel's hip and shoves his hand into his boxer-briefs.

"Fuck," he hisses. He's so close he can feel it waiting at the base of his spine. "Cas — Jesus Christ."

Castiel hauls him up and kisses his sticky mouth. Licks inside with a sound so filthy it makes Dean shudder and clutch at his arms. He nips Dean's lips. Then the air rips in half. In an eyeblink, Dean is naked and flat on his back in the middle of the bed. Castiel leans down and kisses Dean again. He curls his hand around Dean's dick, and Dean squirms underneath him, fucking up into it. His back arches. Heat rushes under his skin.

Castiel rolls them over, urging Dean to straddle his waist by hooking a hand under Dean's thigh. He gets his other hand back on Dean's dick and strokes him hard and fast. Dean rocks his hips and moans Castiel's name. Castiel palms his ass and nudges him closer — close enough that he's going to come all over Castiel's chest. Just thinking about it tugs at the tension in his gut. His mouth drops open and he sucks in a breath. Castiel's hand slides up his arm. His fingers brush the scar on Dean's shoulder and Dean whines behind his teeth and comes and comes and comes.

Shaking, he slumps against Castiel's chest. His pulse is pounding in his throat. Castiel runs a hand down his heaving back and noses at his temple like he isn't dripping sweat. His other hand is still touching Dean's scar, and for some reason it has Dean jittering with aftershocks. It's almost too much, but he can't make himself move away. He just lies there and shivers and mouths at the curve of Castiel's shoulder until Castiel shifts them onto their sides and cleans them up with a lazy gesture.

"You should sleep."

Dean's eyes are already closed. His lips bump Castiel's throat as he asks, "What 'bout you?"

"I'll watch over you," Castiel says, wrapping an arm around his waist.


	3. Wednesday

_The heat is like a blast furnace. Dean's skin is starting to blister. The back of his throat is scorched and raw. The roof groans overhead. The whole building shakes. A rafter shears off with a crack like lightning, crashing down near Dean's feet. Sparks catch in his hair and clothes. Ash billows in his face._

_Everything is smoke. Dean crouches down, sucking in air with his face pressed to the dirty concrete. His lungs burn. His lips are bleeding. His dad shouts, but the thunder-roar of the fire drowns out the words. The roof groans again. Dean crawls forward a little. Gray spots shimmer at the edge of his vision, blurring the orange-red glare of the fire._

_The air shifts beside his ear. Flutters. The searing heat ebbs slightly. A hand grips his shoulder. Someone whispers. Tugs him. He can't move. Sirens are blaring. The hand on his shoulder tightens. Tugs him again. His legs feel like lead. His nose and mouth are clogged with ash. He can't breathe._

_Something slides over him. Soft. Soft. He hears a rustle. Something pulses and churns against his back. He feels a pull at the base of his spine. The screaming heat melts away. Everything is dark. A hand touches his face. Fingers brush through his hair. Something —_

Dean wakes up curled against Castiel's chest. His bedroom is gray with stormy morning light. Castiel's arm is wrapped around his waist. Their legs are tangled, and Dean's head is tucked under Castiel's chin. The dream clings to him with claws like knives; he can almost taste and smell the ash. He breathes into Castiel's throat for a minute before leaning back and looking at Castiel's face.

"It was you, wasn't it?" Dean asks. His voice is thinner than a thread. "You — you pulled me outta that fire."

Castiel pauses for a beat. Then he nods and says, "Yes."

"So, uh." Dean clears his throat once. Twice. He can't stop shaking. "You were just in the neighborhood, or what?"

"Yes," Castiel says again. He slides his hand to the small of Dean's back and holds it there. "I went to Pontiac to find the Staff. I spent several days searching for it. Questioning people." His mouth brushes Dean's temple. "I probably arrived a full week before you and your father."

Dean closes his eyes. "Yeah. We, um. We'd only been in town a few hours." He takes a breath. And another. Then he continues, "We got in kinda late, so we figured we'd grab dinner and a motel and get started in the morning. But at the diner, Dad overheard a waitress talking about her date the night before. She said they busted into an empty warehouse to drink and got chased out by something with maggots for a face. Dad wanted to check it out, so we, uh. We — we."

"I interrogated a demon that night. She told me the Staff was being kept at a warehouse on the outskirts of town." Castiel runs his hand up Dean's back, palming the stretch between his shoulders and pulling him closer. "I flew there and found the adjacent building on fire. I heard screaming, and I — I forgot about the Staff. I went in."

"My dad... was he—? Did you —?"

"I found your father first, but he was beyond my reach. His soul had already ascended." Castiel kisses Dean's temple again. After a moment, he adds, "He died instantly. A fallen rafter struck him in the head and split his skull. He didn't suffer in the fire."

Dean hides a noise in the curve of Castiel's shoulder. They shouldn't be cuddling like this. Not if Castiel's fucking off to Heaven after they find the Staff. Not when Dean's already close to losing his head. But he hasn't talked about his dad's death in years — not since he called Sam and Bobby from Pontiac and told them what happened. The obituary Sam typed up said John Winchester died in a car accident and was cremated, and that's the story Dean sticks to when people ask. They usually don't.

Castiel skims his fingers over Dean's scar. Something flutters under Dean's ribs. He asks, "Is that — is that from you pulling me out?"

Castiel touches it again, fitting his hand into the shape of it. Then he says, "Yes. I was nearly too late. Your soul was leaving your body. Drawing it back — I expended a great deal of my grace at once. That much raw celestial power often leaves an imprint behind."

Dean shivers a little. Celestial power. Jesus fucking Christ. "Does it —? Is it, um."

"What?"

"The night before last, when you were up at the Bel-Aire, it started burning. Like _burning_. Almost knocked me on my ass."

Castiel hums quietly and noses his way up Dean's jaw. When he gets to Dean's mouth, he kisses him soft and slow and sweet. He brings his hand up to the side of Dean's neck and strokes his thumb behind Dean's ear. He smells angel-bright and sleep-warm. His hair is a wreck. He has a pillow crease on his cheek, a thin pink line that runs from the corner of his eye to the dip of his chin.

When he pulls back to mouth at Dean's throat, Dean asks, "You don't think that's weird?"

"No," Castiel replies, the word taking shape against Dean's skin. "Like I said, it's an imprint of my grace. And I was in considerable distress during my fight with Alastair. He nearly forced me from my vessel." His teeth graze the cord of Dean's neck. "I can sense when you're distressed, as well."

"What?" Dean asks. His dick is perking up, and Castiel's hip is just asking to be rubbed against, but Dean makes himself lean back before his bigger brain shuts off entirely. "You can feel it when I'm —?" he trails off and waves his hand.

"That's why I checked your office for hex bags last night. Crowley almost killed you. I should've sensed it."

"How?"

They listen to the rain compete with the bathroom sink for a few seconds. Then Castiel frowns and says, "I don't know if I can explain it. It's a sensation within my grace that I can't describe in human terms. A certain restlessness. Also heat and pressure and urgency. But none of that really comes close." He slides his hand down to the center of Dean's chest. "I've felt it several times since the fire. Once, I felt it so strongly and for such a length of time that I flew to you, although I doubt you remember it. You were asleep when I healed you."

Dean stares at him. He starts to ask, "When?" but then the answer hits him like a two-by-four to the back of the head. It's the only thing in his life besides the scar he's never been able to explain. "When I had that heart attack."

"Yes."

Dean rubs his face with a shaky hand. He and Sam had been hunting that rawhead for weeks. It had killed three children and kidnapped two more. Dean hadn't cared about anything but finding the sonofabitch and frying it like a chicken dinner. He doesn't remember much about being electrocuted. Just the corpse-stench of the rawhead's lair, and the brackish water seeping into the ass of his jeans as he slip-slid across the floor. The way his juiced-up taser had jumped in his hand before the lights went out in his head.

He woke up in a hospital two days later, weak and exhausted and unable to breathe. A doctor with a dull, patient voice had told him that there was nothing they could do. That the jolt had blown his ticker and that it was only a matter of time before it gave out for good. Sam had been frantic; he'd called every crackpot, soothsayer, and palm reader in their dad's weekend telephone book. Then he'd taken Dean to some faith healer preaching out of a tent in the boondocks of Nebraska.

The guy had said a prayer and put his clammy hand on Dean's forehead. Dean hadn't felt anything then, but the next night he'd dreamed of a blinding white light. He'd been in perfect health in the morning. After that, Sam had started talking like God might actually be a real thing. Dean had just told himself the doctor must've been wrong.

A door opens and closes downstairs — Kevin coming into work. Dean's got about an hour before he stomps upstairs and knocks. He looks at Castiel and asks, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Castiel hesitates. An uncomfortable look flits across his face. Then he says, "At first, I didn't see the point. You didn't know angels existed, and I — I assumed I'd never see you again after I killed Alastair and Ellsworth. And then —" he sighs. "I never wanted to involve you in this. It's too dangerous. I didn't want you to feel obligated to help me just because I saved your life once."

"Twice."

"Twice," Castiel agrees. He cradles Dean's jaw and presses his thumb to Dean's mouth. "I know humans can be... strange about that sort of thing. You don't _owe_ me. Angels possess so much power. I helped you because I could."

Dean doesn't know what to say to that, so he cups his hand around the back of Castiel's neck and draws him in for a kiss. He nips at the swell of Castiel's lower lip. Sucks it a little. Then he pushes his hand into Castiel's hair and licks into his mouth. If this had been a dumb idea last night then it's an extra dumb idea right now, but Castiel is warm and naked and gorgeous. His fingers are brushing over Dean's scar again, and he's making soft, pleased noises right into Dean's mouth.

He worms his other arm out from under the pillow and wraps it around Dean's back. His nails bite into Dean's skin as he pulls Dean closer. The blanket is tangled between their feet. Dean kicks it out of the way and runs his hand down to the back Castiel's thigh. He palms the space just above Castiel's knee and tugs, urging Castiel's leg over his. His dick nudges into the crease of Castiel's hip, and he rubs it there, digging his fingers into Castiel's thigh and panting against Castiel's jaw. Castiel's dick is riding against Dean's belly, hard and already wet at the head. He drags a slow kiss up the side of Dean's neck and breathes out Dean's name like a prayer.

The headboard rattles against the wall. Dean's phone buzzes on the nightstand. Dean sucks a mark into the skin below Castiel's ear and shifts until Castiel's dick is lined up with his. They rock together, greedy and rhythmless and gasping. Castiel kisses Dean's temple and Dean's cheek. He slides another kiss down Dean's jaw, all stubble and wet heat. His fingers twist in Dean's hair. His tongue curls over the shell of Dean's ear.

Dean licks his palm a couple of times and wraps his hand around their dicks. The crush of their bodies makes the angle awkward and tight, but he can't stop rolling his hips long enough to give himself more space. He doesn't want more space. He wants Castiel as close as he can get him. He wants to spread Castiel out and tongue him loose and push inside him. He wants to pin Castiel to the bed and finger himself open in Castiel's lap and slowly sink down on Castiel's dick. He wants — fuck. He just _wants_.

Castiel rasps out a moan against Dean's throat. Dean murmurs, "Cas," and tightens his hand, twisting his wrist as much as he can and stroking them faster. Heat blooms in Dean's scar from the inside. He comes with a low, desperate noise, fisting his other hand in the sheet. Castiel follows him a heartbeat later. His back curves and his eyes glint silver. The lamp on the nightstand is off, but the bulb still gutters behind the paper-thin shade like a candle. Once he catches his breath, he kisses Dean's slack mouth.

Dean's phone buzzes again. It's already four minutes after nine. He lets himself kiss Castiel one more time. Then he sighs and climbs out of bed.

 

+

 

Sharing a shower is more pretend-house than Dean's willing to play with a guy who's leaving for another plane of existence in a couple of days, so he shuffles into the bathroom alone. The building's old pipes thump and clank when he turns on the water. As predicted, his knees have filed a complaint demanding half his assets and full custody of his feet. He spends about ten minutes rinsing off and trying not to think about the way Castiel looks when he comes. Then he cranks up the heat until it makes him wince. He balances his ass on the narrow tile lip meant for shampoo bottles and hopes the spray will beat the arthritis out of his knees.

He comes out of the bathroom in a towel because he figures Castiel doesn't count as company anymore. He isn't expecting to find Castiel drinking coffee in the kitchen with Kevin. The warm smell cuts through the hint of stale blood still lingering in the air. Castiel is using the cat mug again, and Kevin is using Dean's magnifying glass mug. A third mug is sitting on the counter. It's comic-book green and says, "Coffee First, Then Speak," in a white, jittery font. It was also a Christmas present from Bobby. Dean's pretty sure he subscribes to one those mail-order catalogs that sells useless tchotchkes to grandmothers.

When the linoleum whines under Dean's wet feet, Castiel looks up and smiles. He pours coffee into the extra mug and passes it over as Kevin says, "Okay. So what you're telling me is, the flood myth from the Bible and the flood myth from the Epic of Gilgamesh really are the same story."

Castiel shakes his head. "No. I said there was only one flood."

"I don't get you," Kevin says, leaning back against the counter.

"The stories refer to the same event. They're just told from different perspectives." After a pause, Castiel adds, "Noah wasn't the only person God warned about the flood. He also warned Utnapishtim and Deucalion. Manu, Bergelmir — there were a few others, but I don't remember their names."

"Are you serious?" Kevin asks. When Castiel just sips his coffee, Kevin frowns at Dean and points at Castiel with his mug. "Is he serious?"

Brakes squeal down on the street. Dean shrugs. He's making a puddle on the floor. "I guess."

"God." Kevin blinks up at the ceiling for a few seconds. "You can't tell me this kind of shit when I can't use it. I can't exactly put _an angel of the lord told me_ in my sources."

"The angel Ezekiel wrote a true account of the flood that reconciled the different versions, but I doubt a copy has survived on earth. The Abba Garima monastery in Ethiopia might have one, or the Al-Zahiriyah library in Damascus." Castiel tips his head to the side and taps his thumb on the rim of his mug. "Ezekiel's original manuscript still exists in Heaven, but it's not in a form humans can see or touch."

"I'm going to cry," Kevin says, rubbing his hand over his face. "I'm going to fucking cry."

Castiel drains his coffee mug and sets it on the counter. Then he turns to Dean and lightly touches his hip. He says, "Last night, Jody mentioned the police coming here today."

"What?" Dean shakes himself a little; his brain is still stuck in low gear. Once it shifts, he mutters, "Fuck. That's right. I — I don't know. Depends if the warrant goes through. Could be tomorrow."

"Sam would call, wouldn't he?" Kevin asks.

Dean scrubs at his hair. "Yeah, but they're keeping him outta the loop. He ain't gonna know 'til they're already on their way." The police don't really have anything on him yet. Chances are, the warrant will only cover the office. But he isn't feeling lucky. "Christ. Now I gotta move all my crap."

He sighs and scrubs his hair again. This time, it nearly costs him his towel. He'd wanted to do some digging at the Eldridge today, but hauling all his hunting shit out of the loft is going to take him all day. His closest lockup is forty minutes away when it _isn't_ pouring rain, and he's got at least six carloads of stuff. Five, if he leaves some of the less freakier books behind. Renting a van would be quicker, but it would also look suspicious as hell.

"I can relocate it for you," Castiel offers.

"You sure? It's a lot of stuff."

"That isn't an issue," Castiel says, shrugging slightly. "Nor is distance."

"Cool. Yeah."

Castiel touches Dean's hip again and heads into Sam's old room. As soon as he's gone, Kevin clears his throat like a pack-a-day smoker. Twice. Dean rolls his eyes and tightens the towel around his waist. He should put on some jeans. He's tired of people hassling him while he's practically naked.

Before he can escape, Kevin crosses his arms and asks, "So, what's for breakfast?"

Dean snorts. "I regret teaching you how to pick a lock."

"Hey, your boyfriend let me in."

"He's not my boyfriend."

Kevin gives Dean a very slow eyebrow. After letting it mock Dean for a few seconds, he says, "Really? Because you usually throw the tourists out before you hit the shower."

"I swear to God, if you don't shut up I'm gonna fire you."

"No, you won't," Kevin says brightly. "You're scared of my mother."

Dean can't really argue with that. And he knows Kevin's only up here because he's still freaked out about the text Dean sent him last night. He doesn't want to be in the office alone when there are demons running around. Dean sighs and chugs a good third of his coffee. As he's grabbing the pot to top himself off, he asks, "Did Cas tell you what happened?"

Kevin blinks. Heat prickles under Dean's jaw as soon as he realizes what he said. He's only called Castiel that a couple of times, and — yeah. They'd been in bed. Kevin's mouth twitches like he's going to let something fly, but then he swallows it and says, "Yeah. Well, kind of. I mean, he just —" he taps his temple "— he just kind of dumped it in my head. Which was weird." He chews his lip for a second. "You think that Crowley guy is coming back?"

"Nah," Dean says, shaking his head. "Our last meeting didn't really pan out the way he wanted. He almost got snuffed. And the Staff ain't here. He knows that by now, even if he still thinks Castiel's got it stashed somewhere."

"If you say so."

"You — hang on." Dean pokes around the kitchen drawers until he turns up a box of sidewalk chalk. The last stick is an obnoxious, toxic-waste shade of yellow, but he figures Kevin can deal. He tosses it over and says, "Just in case, draw a devil's trap on your side of the door. And salt the windows. Or — just go home. I don't really need you today. It's not like I can take a real case with all this angel bullshit going on."

"I can't write my thesis at home. One of my neighbors plays Guitar Hero like eighteen hours a day." Kevin rattles the box of chalk. Then he tucks it in his pocket and asks, "Where are you going to be?"

"Crowley's been staying at the Eldridge," Dean says. His stomach is growling; he pins his hip against the counter so his towel won't fall off while he puts some bread in the toaster. "The house dick over there is an old friend of my dad's. I'm gonna go talk to him, see if Crowley had any visitors, or if he stashed anything freaky in the hotel safe."

Castiel comes out of Sam's old room and asks, "Are you sure that's wise?" He's carrying a box bristling with guns and knives; they clink softly as he moves. "Crowley is dangerous."

"He's holed up somewhere else by now," Dean says, glancing at the toaster. It smells like crumbs are burning at the bottom of the slots. "I searched him when I had him trapped. He saw me looking at his keycard. 'Sides, I don't think he'd try anything funny in a lobby full of people."

Castiel makes a skeptical noise in the back of his throat. Then he nods at the box and asks, "Where should I take these?"

"Oh, uh. What — like the address?"

"Yes."

"StorageMart. Wornall Road, Kansas City. Unit twenty-four."

Castiel cocks his head to the side. A strange, middle-distance look creases his face. The air hums a little. After a moment, his eyes refocus. He must've been plugging himself into the matrix, because he says, "I found it. I'll return shortly," and then disappears with a quiet flutter.

Kevin just stares at the empty space. He looks like someone dumped ice down the front of his pants. Snorting, Dean says, "Yeah, that takes some getting used to." The toaster pops. Dean grabs both slices in one hand and hitches up his towel with the other. "Will you get outta here already?"

"Okay, okay. I'm gone. If a demon eats me, tell my mother I loved her."

"Yeah. Bye."

There's only a tiny sliver of butter in the fridge, and both jars of jam are at least a year old. Maybe more. Colonies of greenish fuzz are growing on the glass. He chucks them in the trash and eats the toast dry. It's stale enough that it tastes like cardboard. Chewing it is a chore. He looks out the kitchen window as he's choking it down, chasing each bite with a mouthful of coffee. The rain has slipped into a half-hearted drizzle, but the sky is still heavy and colorless. The clouds seem to press down on the roof of the tattoo shop.

Once he's finished, he shakes the crumbs on his towel into the sink and heads into his bedroom. He considers the stuff in his closet for a minute. Eventually, he grabs the dark gray suit he wears when he's playing federal agent on monster gigs. It's a little tight across his shoulders, but he doesn't want to show up to the Eldridge looking too blue-collar. Martin won't give a shit, but the other lobby jockeys might remember a guy in ripped jeans and dirty boots.

Castiel sweeps into the room while Dean is fighting with his tie. The papers on Dean's dresser flutter to the floor. Dean threads the tail of his tie into the loop and coaxes it through. As he's smoothing out the knot, he asks, "You coming with me?"

"I should," Castiel grumbles. His trenchcoat is dry, but he smells like cold wind and wet weather. "I'm not convinced visiting Crowley's hotel is safe. But I need to search the warehouse where I fought Uriel."

"You think he ditched the Staff there?"

"He might have. I didn't have the chance to look the other night. I was in a rush to meet Alastair."

Castiel's collar is the perfect frame for the hollow of his throat. Dean wants to put his mouth there, so he does. He kisses it once. Twice. Then he noses at Castiel's jaw and says, "Be careful. That place is probably still crawling with cops."

"You be careful," Castiel counters. He palms the side of Dean's neck. "Crowley's a demon. A hotel full of people won't stop him from hurting you if he feels cornered."

"I'm telling you, he ain't gonna be there."

"If he is, I want you to call for me. We can fight him together."

Dean's face flushes. He looks away for a second and scratches the back of his neck. Then he clears his throat and asks, "How? You get yourself a phone while you were out?"

A smile tugs the corner of Castiel's mouth. "You can pray to me."

"What —? Pray —?" Dean doesn't think he's ever prayed in his life. He never saw the point. Even now — now that he _knows_ Heaven is real — he's not convinced anyone would be listening. "How? Just —"

"Just think of me by name. I'll hear you."

Dean shuts his eyes. _Okay, Castiel_. He feels like an idiot. _So — like this? Testing? Testing one-two-three?_

"Yes, like that. And I don't mind you calling me Cas." His voice is threaded with something soft. "I — I like it."

"Yeah, okay. I — yeah." Christ, Dean's face is on fire. And it's almost ten o'clock; he needs to get moving. "I, um. I left my car at Biggerson's last night. Can I get a lift?"

"Of course," Cas says, pulling him close.

 

+

 

The Eldridge is a looming hunk of historic brickwork on the corner of Massachusetts and Seventh. The rain has rusted the building a dark brown and turned the neatly manicured lawn into a Louisiana swamp. The parking is valet, so Dean grabs a street spot and feeds the meter all the quarters in the Impala's ashtray. He hoofs it back up to the hotel hoping that the weather won't start having a tantrum while he's still halfway there. The puddles patching the sidewalk are flecked with grass and streaked with dirt. Dean comes in through the side because that door isn't manned. Doormen have memories like elephants, and they gossip more than bellhops.

Inside, the air tinkles with canned piano music. Dean's shoes squeak on the marble floor, and the sound echoes off the textured ceiling like a fork scraping an empty plate. The lobby is dotted with pairs of overstuffed couches staring at each other across patterned rugs. The closest set is already occupied; two men are reading newspapers at opposite ends of one couch, and a woman is clacking away on a laptop in the middle of the other. The set behind that has been commandeered by a family of six, including their luggage, two strollers, and a Pomeranian in a Moses basket. They're giving off an "airport shuttle purgatory" vibe.

Martin has an office in one of the Employee Only areas that's basically a storage closet with a desk crammed in one corner and a safe cemented to the floor. It's hotter than hell because it's right next to the laundry room. Dean doesn't want to ask for him at reception, but he probably won't have to. Martin usually cruises the lobby every twenty or thirty minutes to get some fresh air and to make it look like he's earning his paycheck. On paper, Martin is head of security, but the guards are outsourced rent-a-cops. Martin really just checks the crap in the safe three times a day and hassles people he thinks are loitering.

The bar is open. Dean decides to grab a table by the door and order something that'll keep his mouth busy while he waits. The only other early drinker is a woman facing the floor-to-ceiling windows and toying with a Bloody Mary the size of a vase. Dean checks the lobby for Martin one more time. As he's turning back toward the bar, his phone buzzes in his pocket. It's Kevin. Dean ducks behind one of the tacky Greek columns and sticks a finger in his other ear to mute the piano music.

"What's up?"

"Well," Kevin says slowly. His voice could shear through a concrete slab. "The police are here. They got their warrant."

Dean huffs out a breath. "Christ." A guy with a briefcase and a Bluetooth walks by; once he's gone, Dean asks, "Is Jody there?"

"Uh-huh."

"Okay." Jody won't let it get out of hand. Dean just hopes they're not authorized to search the loft. His hunting crap is in Kansas City and Cas got rid of the blood on the kitchen floor, but his living room still looks like the aftermath of a Top Notch bout. "Upstairs too or just the office?"

"Just —" Kevin cuts off. In the pause, Dean hears muffled voices and a few dull, heavy thumps. "Just the office."

"Okay," Dean says again. The only embarrassing thing downstairs is the bottle of Devil's Cut in his desk, but Dean isn't the first PI to drink on the clock and he won't be the last. "It's all right. Just let 'em do their thing. Don't argue with 'em — not unless they try to take your school stuff. That's personal. If they start rattling you, get Aaron on the horn."

After sighing in his ear, Kevin says, "Yeah," and hangs up.

Dean pockets his phone and heads into the bar. The floor is carpet, which saves him from listening to his shoes. When the bartender looks up, Dean gives him part of a smile and says, "Hey, there. Lemme get a whiskey. Neat."

"Do you have a preference, sir?"

"Whatever bottle's closest."

He puts his back to the bar while he waits. Aside from a few booths, the tables are black-painted high-tops ringed by the kind of chairs that need to be scaled with climbing equipment. The windows open to Seventh and provide a stunning view of the valet kiosk. Dean glances at the woman; she's typing out a text. Then he glances at her again, because — yeah. Her hair is darker than it was the last time he saw her. It's also longer. Out of the high ponytail, it would hit the middle of her back. Her sleek, beige pantsuit is hugging her body, so her gun is probably in her purse.

Dean lays some cash on the bar, grabs his whiskey, and helps himself to the chair on her left.

"That seat's taken," she snaps. She doesn't bother looking up.

"That's no way to talk to a friend, Bela."

That gets her attention. Her eyes widen slightly, but she has her game face on by her next breath. She says, "Winchester," in a tart voice and sneers at his glass. "A bit early for that, don't you think?"

Dean snorts. "You gonna tell me that's straight tomato juice?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I asked for Belvedere and I told him not to stint." Bela leans back in her chair and stirs her drink with its celery stalk. "That's a reasonably decent suit. Will you be pleading guilty or no contest?"

"You're hilarious," Dean says. He knocks back a mouthful of whiskey and lets his glass thunk down on the table. "What are you doing here? This place is at least two stars below your regular vacation digs."

"I had a taste for something rustic," she says airily. After a beat, her smile slips. She taps her dark pink nails on the table and asks, "What do you want?"

"Oh, I don't know," Dean says, giving her a lazy shrug. "I thought we could catch up. Talk about the good old days."

"I wasn't aware we'd had any good old days."

"How about that time you shot me?"

Bela sighs like she's disappointed. "That was years ago. And it was just a flesh wound. A big, strong man like you needn't be such a baby about it."

"And you stole my lottery tickets. _After_ you shot me."

"Compensation for unpaid wages." Bela's phone buzzes. She glances at it, turns it face down, and pushes it away. "Losing that rabbit's foot cost me an absurd amount of money. Besides, I paid you nearly as much as those tickets were worth that time you were lucky enough to save my life."

Dean treats himself to another finger of whiskey. He fucking needs it. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and says, "Okay, fun's over. What the hell are you doing here?"

"I already told you," she complains, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her face. "New York was feeling claustrophobic. I thought I'd visit the provinces and see how the other half lives." She wrinkles her nose. "Mostly in double-wides, it seems."

"Well, we can't all fleece rich old ladies by pretending to be a cat medium."

That one rolls off her like water. Instead of firing something else across his bow, she checks her watch and says, "Listen, Winchester. This has been delightful, but I'm meeting someone in a few minutes, so —" She waves a hand at him. "Shoo."

"Not a chance."

"Will one hundred dollars get rid of you?" she asks. When Dean doesn't say anything, she sighs and winds up for another pitch. "How does two hundred sound? Three?" Dean shakes his head; she narrows her eyes and reaches for her purse. "I'd shoot you again but I'd hate to get blood in my drink."

Dean just stares at her. She'd probably let him pump her for at least a grand; that's pocket change compared to what she's getting paid. And she's used to dealing with people who can be bought. Turning, Dean catches the bartender's eye and gestures for another drink. Bela's phone buzzes again. She sips her Bloody Mary. The look on her face says she'd like him better if he was a sticky smear on the floor. Not that that's anything new.

Finally, she huffs and asks, "Shall I call security?"

Dean leans his elbow on the table and smiles. He says, "Go ahead. Try it." Lowering his voice, he adds, "This joint's house detective is an old friend of the family. He might just drop an eight-ball down your blouse and walk you outta here in handcuffs."

"It would never stick."

The bartender comes back with the whiskey as Dean says, "You're right. It wouldn't." Dean hands him some more cash and gives him a few seconds to leave before continuing, "But it would get you outta my hair for twenty-four hours. Maybe even forty-eight. And I could always tell 'em about that Prius you rented in a fake name."

Bela's hand tightens on her purse. Quietly, she says, "I have fifteen thousand on me right now. I'll give you all of it if you finish that kerosene you're drinking and walk out the door without looking back."

Dean chews his lip like he's thinking about it. Then he says, "Huh. Crowley must be shelling it out through the nose if you've got that much paper to burn."

"I'm not working for Crowley."

"So... what? You followed me all over town last night just for kicks?" Dean rolls his glass between his palms while he waits for her to answer. When she doesn't, he says, "A word of professional advice, from someone who does this shit for a living — hang back a little. You were so far up my ass I could smell your perfume."

That one rolls off her too. She smooths her lapel and insists, "I'm not working for Crowley."

"If you ain't working for Crowley, then you're working for the other guy. The religious nut." Dean lets that one simmer for a bit, but it doesn't boil over the way he wants. Bela just nurses her Bloody Mary and watches him over the rim of her glass. So he asks, "What's his name?"

She hesitates. Something Dean can't read flickers across her face. Her phone buzzes again as she says, "He calls himself Enoch. He's paying me to recover a stolen relic."

Dean lets "relic" slide for now — potato, potahto. He asks, "Did he tell you it was stolen by a demon?" Bela doesn't even blink; either she already knew or she's doing a damn good job of playing it cool. He swallows some more whiskey. Then he says, "Look, I know we ain't friends, and I know you can handle yourself. But trust me here: this is way outta your league."

"Your concern is touching, but I'm afraid I have to see this one through to the end."

"Why? You —" Dean cuts off and looks at her. Really looks at her. Her back is straight and her shoulders are set and every hair on her head is perfect. But her mouth is tight. She's white-knuckling her drink. The shadows under her eyes are so dark her makeup can't keep up with them. "You ain't in this for the money. This Enoch guy is squeezing you." She doesn't deny it, so he presses, "What's his deal?"

"Forget it," she says, shaking her head.

Dean grabs his drink but only brings it halfway to his mouth. His stomach doesn't want it. Not when there's nothing to cushion it but stale toast. He swirls the whiskey around and says, "If you tell me what his game is, I might be able to help you."

"You can't. No one can." Her voice is brittle around the edges. "You said this was out of my league, but you honestly have no idea."

"Bela —"

"I have to go," she says, standing. She slips her phone into her purse and tucks it under her arm. "If he sees me with you, I'm dead. Quite literally."

"If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

"Yes. Any number of places with Coors Light on tap and sawdust on the floor."

She cuts behind him and heads for the bar's street exit. He'd been wrong about her gun. It's putting a wrinkle in her suit at the dip of her back. It's very small, probably a short-nosed twenty-two. A burst of city noise darts inside around her when she opens the door — car engines, footsteps, a bike bell, tired brakes. As it fades out, Dean grits his teeth through the dregs of his shot. He feels like he's doing a puzzle in the dark. The pieces are all there but he can't see the picture.

He doesn't know much about Bela. Just that she's a con artist. A thief who specializes in cursed and occult objects. And she's killed someone. That vengeful spirit up in Sea Pines had only dragged himself off his ghost ship for people who'd caused a death in their family, and she'd admitted to it when Dean and Sam had pointed that out. There's plenty there for a shakedown. Dean just can't figure out why Enoch would bother. Why he'd "hire" a human to duke it out with a bunch of demons.

That hexed rabbit foot they tangled with had granted unstoppable good luck to anyone who owned it and fatal bad luck to anyone who lost it. And it'd had a way of getting lost. "Absurd" amount of money or not, Bela had burned the thing quick enough once Dean had tricked her into touching it. She's the kind of rich that can take a little squeezing, and she's obviously not in a hurry to die. She wouldn't be wrapped up in something this heavy unless Enoch was laying it on thick. Whatever he's got, it's better than a few stolen talking boards. It might even be better than a murder.

"Another whiskey, sir?"

"No thanks," Dean says, holding up his hand. He stands and straightens his tie. "I gotta get some work done today."

The lobby's piano music is waiting for Dean at the door. So is the marble floor. As he's squeaking his way into the sitting area, he spots Martin's bald head and Sears suit coming out of the hotel's full-service restaurant. It's too late for breakfast and too early for lunch; he's probably just making his rounds. Dean catches his eye and waves him over. Martin nods and starts walking across the lobby, but he stops in front of the woman on her laptop. They talk for a minute. Then Martin points at the door. She closes her laptop and reaches for her bag. She gives Martin's back the finger after he turns around.

Once he's close enough, Dean asks, "College kids milking your WiFi again?"

"Every damn day," Martin mutters. He sticks out his hand. "Haven't seen you in awhile. You're looking good."

"So are you," Dean says. It's a lie; Martin looks like every other PI in the back nine of his career. He's worn thin and yellow around the eyes. His shoulders are hunched, and his nose is spiderwebbed with broken blood vessels. "You got a minute?"

"For one of John Winchester's kids? Always." He jerks his long chin toward reception. "You wanna grab a seat in my office?"

Dean shakes his head; the heat in there will put those two shots of whiskey on a slow boil. "I just got a coupla questions about a guest. Thomas Brighton. He spent the weekend in 206."

"Yeah," Martin says slowly. "Short guy in a black suit. Sounded British."

"That's him."

"Trouble?"

"Not on your end," Dean says. He leans his shoulder against the column behind him. "A guy came in yesterday wanting me to dig into a bad business deal, but it sounded fishy. I'm just looking at all the angles. Brighton still around?"

"Checked out this morning," Martin replies, scratching at his jaw. "He might be onto your guy — when he signed into the safe he said he'd be here about a week."

"What'd he drop?"

"Few grand."

Dean's phone buzzes in his pocket. He ignores it and asks, "Traveler's checks?"

"No. Stacks."

Dean whistles through his teeth. "Must be nice."

"Tell me about it," Martin says, shaking his head. "This place barely pays me enough to cover all the Wild Turkey I need to get through the day."

"I hear that." Dean's phone buzzes again. "Brighton have any visitors?"

Martin pauses for a second. Then he nods and says, "He did, yeah. Sunday afternoon. It was an older guy in a Nutty Professor sweater. Curly hair, kinda scruffy. I remember him 'cause one of the desk girls called me down. She thought he was a vagrant."

"Huh," Dean says. He should've asked Bela what Enoch looked like. "They go up to Brighton's room?"

"No. They had lunch at the restaurant. After —" Martin cuts off as the Pomeranian starts barking. When it just keeps at it, he shrugs and continues, "After that, Brighton went upstairs alone. His buddy asked about shuttle service to the Oread. The vans are for guests, so one of the girls called him a taxi."

"Huh." The Oread is Lawrence's other three-star. It's not much to go on, but it'll give Dean a place to start. His phone buzzes again. He grabs it from his pocket and tells Martin, "Thanks. I gotta get this; the office has been nuts since Alastair died."

Martin claps him on the shoulder. "I heard about that. Tough break."

"Yeah," Dean mutters. "It's been rough."

 

+

 

Dean waits to check his phone until he's back at the car. The rain is still on hold, but the air feels heavier than lead, like the sky is ready to crack open again any at minute. Fresh clouds are gathering over North Lawrence, purple-gray and hanging low over the horizon. Dean steps off the curb too close to the gutter and splashes dingy water up the back of his leg. Cursing, he jaywalks diagonally across Massachusetts Street. A woman in a yellow raincoat walks a poodle past the Impala as he's unlocking the door. She has an unopened umbrella cradled in her arm like a shotgun.

His phone informs him that he has two text messages and two voicemails. The first text is from Sam and it's about thirty minutes old; Dean had been so focused on yanking Bela's chain that he hadn't heard it buzz. It says, "warrant. sorry." The second text is from Kevin and says, "fuzz gone. bring lunch." The missed calls are from Bobby's office number, so Dean doesn't bother listening to the voicemails. He knows they're both just Bobby barking, "pick up, damn it," and slamming the receiver down hard enough to pop Dean's eardrum.

A red piece of paper has been wedged under the Impala's passenger-side wiper. The last forty-eight hours have been weird enough that Dean opens it expecting a cryptic note from Crowley, but it's just a flyer advertising a bake sale for the Spanish Club at Lawrence High School. Dean folds it up and shoves it behind the spare tire of the Jeep parked in front of him. It immediately catches the wind and nosedives onto the damp sidewalk. Dean leaves it there. He climbs into the Impala, fires it up, and twirls the radio until he finds the Creedence version of _Midnight Special_.

He dials Bobby's office. The phone rings like it's irritated. After three, Bobby wrestles the receiver to his ear and grouses, "Douglas County, this is Singer."

"You looking for me?" Dean asks.

Bobby heaves out a sigh so loud Dean can practically feel it. "'Course I'm looking for you. I spend half my life looking for you. And I spend the other half getting your ass out of a sling. Where've you been all morning?"

"Doing weekend shit," Dean says, leaning back in his seat. The wet patch on his pants sticks to his calf. "Sam fill you in on everything?"

"Uh-huh. And it all sounds more cuckoo than a clock." Bobby sighs again. Louder. Dean hopes he remembered to take his blood pressure pills. "Only you could end up neck deep in something like this. You or your brother."

"Yeah, I know." Across the street, a woman with a stack of bake sale flyers is making her way down the row of cars facing south. Dean loosens his tie a little and says, "You wanna hear about the cherry on this sundae?"

"Now what?"

"Bela Talbot's in town."

"Good for her," Bobby says. Dean hears slurping on that end of the line — Bobby chugging his coffee — then, "You think she's here for the treasure hunt?"

"She said she was."

"You _talked_ to her?" Bobby huffs out a noise. "She didn't shoot you again, did she?"

"Nope. And she only threatened to once. I think she's finally warming up to me."

Bobby pauses for a few seconds. The usual office racket rushes in to fill the silence — voices, keyboards, ringing telephones. A fax machine beeps. Bobby says, "Well, I got some more good news. Just lemme know when you're ready."

"Christ," Dean grumbles. _Midnight Special_ ends; he turns the volume down as a car commercial starts. "All right. Hit me."

"Henriksen wants to see you."

Dean grunts and rubs his eyes. That's the last thing he needs right now. "He say when?"

"At your earliest convenience."

"So... today." Dean could maybe drag it out until tomorrow. Anything later than that will just make Henriksen double-down on his bastard routine. "He in now?"

"Yeah, but Nancy was saying something about him having court, so he's prob'ly skipping out in a minute." Someone asks Bobby a question; he says, "Okay, hang on," with his hand over the receiver. Then he tells Dean, "Swing by about three. If he turns up before that, I'll call you."

"All right," Dean says. His whiskey breakfast is sitting in his gut like a stone. "Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby grumbles, "Uh-huh," and hangs up.

A van trundles by. It's one of the bone-white Econoline jobs that the Eldridge uses to ferry its guests around town. The passengers are hazy shadows behind the tinted windows. Dean's meter still has forty-five minutes on it. That's a load and a half at the coin-op laundromat on Thirty-First, but Dean doesn't have time to sit around and cry about it. He wants to get to the Oread before people start mobbing into its restaurant for lunch. Dean eases the Impala's nose past the Jeep's rear bumper. He flips a u-turn that's tighter than a glove and drives the mile and a half down to Indiana Street and Twelfth.

From the outside, the Eldridge looks like the kind of bank Dillinger used to rob back in the thirties. The Oread is about a hundred years newer; it looks like a guy who'd never seen a castle before tried to build one with his eyes closed. Its parking is also valet, so Dean grabs another street spot and stuffs change into a brand new meter. It takes him a minute because all he has left are nickels and dimes. A pair of joggers come up as Dean is walking around to the Impala's rear. He lets them pass before popping the trunk and lifting the false bottom that hides his weapons.

The demon shank is already sheathed at Dean's hip. Just in case, he slides Cas' spare angel blade into his suit's inside pocket. He hesitates over his forty-five. After chewing his lip for a second, he swaps it for a black thirty-two that's smaller and slimmer and less noticeable. He doesn't like it as well, but getting grilled by the Oread's house dick for packing is a scene he doesn't need. The old guy, Travis, had been just like Martin — a PI buddy of John's who'd taken a hotel gig after aging out of street work. About a year ago, he got replaced by an ex-Marine named Cole; he's young and uptight and the kind of asshole who'd ask to see Dean's license just because he can.

Dean hesitates again as he's closing the trunk. He digs behind his stock of shotgun shells and salt canisters until he finds an old, beat-up Bible. He sticks it under his arm and pockets his keys. Rain starts pattering on the sidewalk as he's heading up the block, but it's thin and light, like the storm is just rolling over to hit the snooze button on its alarm. The flags on the Oread's upper balcony flap with the wind. Dean straightens his tie. He cuts across the soggy lawn and slips inside through the coffee shop.

He's greeted by more canned piano music. It's louder and jazzier than the stuff that had been playing over at the Eldridge. The lobby's stone ceiling arches down into pillars that kiss the red and brown carpet, making it feel like cave. A handful of artsy, copper pendant lamps glow above Dean's head without really giving off any light. Dean spots Cole's dishwater-brown crew-cut over at reception. He's is showing the lobby his back and waving his hand as he talks into a courtesy phone. The woman standing beside him is on the other courtesy phone. The look on her face says she's trying to get an ETA from a taxi company. Turning on his heel, Dean joins a knot of people making their way toward the restaurant.

It's a few minutes after eleven, so the breakfast crowd has mostly cleared out. A pair of busboys are gathering up what's left of the continental buffet. Dean takes a quick glance around. Two businessmen are hashing out a contract; their laptops and briefcases are spread out over a table meant for six. By the window, three women are chatting over bucket-sized mimosas. Across from them, another woman is frowning at a crossword puzzle. An older guy in a frumpy sweater is holed up in a corner booth with a strawberry waffle and a book.

Dean gives him a once-over. His curly hair is a wild, unbrushed mop and his scraggly beard is more gray than brown. His sweater looks like washing it wouldn't save it; it needs to be taken out back and shot. Not the safest bet, but Dean has rolled the dice for less. He grabs a two-top just across the aisle. He doesn't like having his back to the door, but he sits facing the booth so the guy will see him if he ever looks up from his book. Before his ass is really in the chair, a server appears out of nowhere and hands him a menu.

"Just a coffee for now," Dean says. Her smile slips as she calculates twenty percent on two-fifty, so he adds, "I'm meeting someone. He should be here in a few minutes."

Dean opens the Bible while he waits. It's a Gideon job he lifted from a fleabag motel a few years ago; he'd been trying to dig up information on a possible demon possession by posing as a priest. The pages are so thin that the words on one side are blurred by the words on the next. A good fifty or sixty toward the end are stuck together with gun oil. It smells like the inside of the Impala's trunk — grease and butane and salt. Dean pulls out his phone and Googles _Moses staff plagues_. The first hit tells him to check out Exodus — chapter seven, verse fourteen.

It's a King James Version, which means it's barely in English. Verse fourteen is all right, but verse fifteen says, "Get thee unto Pharaoh in the morning; lo, he goeth out unto the water; and thou shalt stand by the river's brink against he come; and the rod which was turned to a serpent shalt thou take in thine hand." After that, Dean just skims it for the highlights. Moses turns the river into blood. He makes it rain frogs. Then he covers everything in gnats and flies.

The server comes back with Dean's coffee just as the livestock in Egypt start dying. She sets a tiny pitcher of milk beside it, but Dean drinks it black. Compared to the diner mud he lives on, it tastes too clean. He sips it slowly, glancing at the guy over the rim of his mug. His nose is still in his book, and he has strawberries on his chin because he isn't watching where he's putting his fork. Dean flips to the next page. Everyone in Egypt breaks out in boils. A freak hailstorm beats the shit out of their crops.

Locusts begin swarming in, but then a shadow cuts across the page. Dean looks up and finds the guy hovering at the edge of the table. His sweater is buttoned wrong. Dean hadn't heard him get up. After a pause, the guy says, "I don't want to interrupt, but I always notice when someone is reading my favorite book."

Yahtzee. Smiling, Dean asks, "The Bible's your favorite book?"

"I love a good story, and the Bible has some of the best — love, sex, violence, murder, plagues, intrigue, betrayal. It's all there." The guy takes a breath and offers Dean his hand. "Sorry. I lose my manners when I get excited. My name is Enoch."

"Dean."

"Dean," Enoch repeats thoughtfully. "That's an interesting name. A good name. It's Hebrew for _law_. You — do you mind if I join you?"

"Please," Dean says, pointing at the other chair. "Do you want some coffee?"

Enoch waves that off as he sits. "No, thank you. I've already had enough to float a barge, and once you reach fifty, too much gives you the jitters." He leans his elbows on the table, making it wobble slightly. "So, tell me, Dean. Are you a believer?"

"I think so," Dean says. He closes the Bible and taps his fingers on the cover. "I didn't grow up with it. My dad — he didn't have a lot of time for God. But I, um." He chews his lip for a second. "Something happened to me a coupla years ago, and — I don't know."

Enoch cocks his head to the side like a bird. "A religious experience?"

"I guess, yeah. I had this — I had a heart attack. Some kinda... whatever they call it. Defect."

"Congenital."

"Yeah, congenital. The doctors said my heart was shot. That it'd give out in a few months, maybe a year. My brother —" Dean cuts off with a sigh. He chews his lip a little more. He lets his voice hitch when he continues, "We don't have a lot of family left, so my brother didn't wanna take it lying down. He dragged me to about twenty more doctors, but — you know. They all said the same thing." He sighs again. "After that, he took me to see this guy. A faith healer. I wasn't buying what he was selling when I went in, but I walked outta there in perfect health."

"A miracle," Enoch says solemnly. "Healed by the laying on of hands." He straightens and scratches his strawberry-stained beard. "What an incredible story. Too bad you left out the best part."

Dean puts a blank look on his face. "What part?"

"The real reason your heart stopped. It was either a monster attack or your own stupidity. Possibly both." Enoch shows Dean a mouthful of crooked teeth. "I know who you are, Dean Winchester. I know what you are. And I know why you're here."

"You got me all wrong," Dean says, leaning back in his chair. He slides his hand into his lap so it's closer to his gun. "I'm just here for the coffee."

"You want the object," Enoch insists. Dean opens his mouth to deny it, but Enoch just narrows his eyes and continues, "I know you were at the Eldridge. I know you had a drink with Bela Talbot. I know you asked Martin Creaser questions about my associate, Thomas Brighton. I've been waiting for you." He pauses. A smug smile tugs at his mouth. "I told you, I love a good story. I've read hundreds of detective novels. Thousands. Hammett, Chandler, MacDonald — all the classics. It wasn't hard to figure out your next move."

"You —"

"I also know what you're thinking right now," Enoch cuts in. "You're thinking, _That's impossible. Martin wouldn't have sold me out._ The truth is, he called me the minute you left the Eldridge."

"No way," Dean says. The restaurant is slowly filling up. His stomach is tying itself into a knot. "He wouldn't've."

"A year ago? Maybe not. But the Eldridge has started cutting his pay every quarter." Enoch heaves out a sad, dramatic sigh. "They keep telling him it's because the economy is bad, but they really want him to retire. They want to replace him with someone fresher. Someone like the young man who works here."

Dean scoffs under his breath. "You got Cole on your dime, too?"

"No," Enoch says, shaking his head. "I hired Martin because I don't trust Brighton. I needed someone to keep an eye on him, and Bela can't be everywhere at once."

The hostess seats two women at the next table. Dean gives them a second to get zeroed in on their menus. Then he lowers his voice and says, "You're throwing a lot of money around."

Enoch shrugs. "I have my resources. Money isn't an issue. The object is the only thing I care about."

"It ain't what you think."

"You're wrong," Enoch says, rapping his knuckles on the table. "It's everything. I intend to get it, and I'll kill anyone who interferes."

Dean pauses and swallows some coffee. It's lukewarm. Slightly sour from standing. Dean's stomach fires off a warning flare, but he ignores it and drains his mug. The hostess swings by again; she seats a guy on a date with his laptop at the table on Dean's other side. Enoch huffs out a noise. He has waffle crumbs on his sweater, and he's watching Dean like he's studying a chessboard. It's making Dean itch.

Quietly, he asks, "You know Brighton's a demon, right?"

Enoch doesn't miss a beat. "Of course. That's _why_ I don't trust him."

The server comes over with the coffee pot. She double-takes at Enoch. Then she says, "Mister Acher, you haven't finished your waffle. Would you like your plate moved over here?"

"No, Olivia. I'm afraid my friend is leaving."

"Yeah, sorry," Dean says, standing. He might as well take the out; this conversation isn't getting him anywhere. "The guy I'm meeting — we got our wires crossed. Turns out he's up at the Eldridge."

Her smiles slips again. "I'll get your check."

"Don't worry about that," Enoch says. He smiles. "Just put it on my bill." 

 

+

 

Dean pulls into McDonald's on his way back to the office. He usually goes inside — there's less chance of getting shorted a burger that way — but the rain has finally started to wake up a little. It's falling just hard enough to make the Impala's wipers work for a living. Dean swings into the drive-thru behind an elderly Corolla that's belching out exhaust. He orders two Big Macs, twenty Chicken McNuggets, and four apple pies. _Kashmir_ comes on the radio. He hums along under his breath while he waits for a kid with quarter-sized holes in his ears to bag up his food and hand over his drinks.

The drive back to his side of Lawrence is slow. An accident between a gardening jalopy and a new Mustang has Sixth down to one lane going west. Oil-slicks shimmer on the wet asphalt. The row of brake lights in front of him burns everything a fiery red. A pair of cops in clear plastic raincoats are laying out a line of emergency flares. The pinkish smoke catches the wind and spreads over everything like a fog. Dean turns up the radio. He loosens his tie. He rides his brakes and stuffs fries into his mouth and tries to make some sense out of his chat with Enoch.

The guy hadn't even blinked when Dean brought up Crowley being a demon. Dean doesn't think he was covering — he'd already known. But he'd used Crowley's fake name. And he hadn't seemed scared. Most people don't even believe demons exist, but the ones who know the truth normally run screaming at the thought of being anywhere near one. Enoch had shrugged it off like it was nothing. Like Crowley is just another thing his money can buy.

Either he's flat-out crazy, or he's got a holy knick-knack in his hoard that he thinks will protect him from hell. Or he doesn't really believe in the Bible's sulfur and brimstone shtick. Crowley had called Enoch a religious nut, but Enoch had stopped talking about God the second Dean dropped his choirboy front. He _had_ talked about money. He might think the Staff is a piece of the True Cross, but Dean's pretty sure the fire under his ass is more about greed than faith.

The street parking in front of the office is full again. Dean squeezes the Impala into the last spot in the lot, right between the dumpster and Kevin's ancient Cherokee. He shoves another handful of fries in his mouth so he can listen to the end of _Saturday Night Special_. One of the tattooists is lurking in the alley; he's smoking a cigarette and using a newspaper as an umbrella. The rain beats down like a drum. When the song ends, Dean grabs the food and climbs out of the car. He almost loses the drinks as he wrestles with the building's back door.

A few steps down the hallway, he stops. Lilith Alastair is standing outside the office door. She reaches for the handle. Pulls back. Reaches for it again. She shakes herself a little. Then she huffs out a noise and faces Dean. She's wearing black jeans and a black sweater, and her ice-blonde hair is swept into a neat bun. An angry flush is spreading across her cheeks. Her boots make hollow sounds on the tile floor as she walks toward him.

"Winchester," she says coldly. The light above her head flickers. "You've been avoiding my calls."

Dean's guilty as charged, so he doesn't bother denying it. He says, "Yeah, sorry. I haven't been in the office much."

Lilith glares at him like she'd pay cash to spit on his grave. Then she crosses her arms and asks, "What happened to my husband?"

Dean swallows a sigh. He's always hated this part of weekend stuff. Standing over a corpse with a family who wants to know why. Not having an answer they'd believe or even understand. Tiredly, he says, "I don't know. Talk to the police."

"The police." Lilith scoffs. "I've talked to the police several times, but they don't know anything. They don't know who killed him. They're not even sure how he died."

It's only been two days — and murder investigations can take weeks, months, sometimes years — but the twist to her mouth suggests telling her that is going to land in the rough. Instead, Dean asks, "What makes you think I do?"

"You must know something. You're the one who sent him to that hooker motel in the middle of the night."

"Hey, I didn't _send_ him anywhere," Dean says. He nearly loses the drinks again. "Alastair was freelance. I paid him a wage, but he chose his own gigs. And he worked them alone unless he bumped into something that needed another pair of eyes."

The light flickers again. She asks, "Who hired him?"

"I couldn't tell you," Dean says, shrugging. "I was on the phone when the guy came in. I didn't hear much, but it sounded like maybe his wife had run out on him. I figure he wanted Alastair to track her down."

"What did he look like?"

"Why? You gonna bring him in yourself?"

Lilith's mouth twists again. "Just tell me."

"I don't know. He was just a guy." Dean's clutching the McDonald's bags in one hand; his fingers are starting to cramp. "Late thirties, maybe early forties. Dark hair. He — I told you, I was on the phone. I wasn't paying attention."

"Don't you write these things down?"

The office telephone rings. After a beat or two, Kevin's voice burrs through the wall. Dean frowns at Lilith. He's almost tempted to tell her the truth. To let her chew on that instead of his ass. But his shoes are pinching him and the sodas are sweating on his suit. His gut is trying to turn those fries he ate into heartburn. The hallway's morgue-yellow fluorescent hum is making him itch.

Sighing, he says, "It was Alastair's case. Paperwork was on him. And if he made a file on this guy, it ain't here anymore. Cops cleaned out his desk this morning."

"He was your partner," Lilith says, unfolding her arms. Her hands clench into fists. "Shouldn't you be looking into it? Or are you too busy covering your tracks?"

Christ. Not her too. "I didn't kill your husband."

"No. You just let him go off and get killed."

"Look," Dean snaps. "This ain't the safest job in the world. And I told Alastair that when he signed on. You know what he said to me? He said that sounded great. He said he was tired of being a lawyer." Dean bites back an empty laugh. "He said most days at the firm felt like a week in Hell."

A knife-sharp noise catches in Lilith's throat. Brushing past him, she says, "I will drag you there myself if I find out you had something to do with this."

"Promise?" Dean asks.

She doesn't look back. Only some of her gardenia perfume follows her out. The rest of it's too busy crowding into Dean's nose. He sneezes. One of the McDonald's bags starts to rip, so he turns to the door and fumbles with the knob. When he walks in the office, Kevin jumps a little and grabs one of his books. The tips of his ears are red from all the hard work they were doing eavesdropping.

"Thanks for rescuing me," Dean says.

Kevin shrugs. "You've got a gun. I figured you could take her."

"Whatever." Dean sets the bags on Kevin's desk and starts dividing up the food. The fries are gummy and cold. "She come in and rattle you?"

"Nope," Kevin says, shaking his head. He closes the book he wasn't reading and puts it with the rest of the pile. "I didn't know she was here until she —" he cocks his head toward the wall "— you know."

Dean gives his heartburn a couple of Chicken McNuggets to play with. Chewing, he asks, "How'd the search and seizure go?"

Kevin just stares at Dean for a second, dead-eyed. Then he says, "It was peachy. My favorite part was Roy and Walt pawing through my notes like they can even read."

"Hey. I told you not to let 'em hassle you."

Kevin shrugs again. Then he snorts out a laugh and says, "Actually, it was kind of funny. Half this stuff is in Cuneiform, and it freaked Walt the fuck out. He kept asking me if it was witchcraft."

"You should've offered to do a trick for him." Dean puts another Chicken McNugget in his mouth and glances at the door. Kevin's devil's trap is just below the frosted window; it's about the size of a basketball, if basketballs were shaped like eggs. Dean points at it with his Coke and says, "I bet that didn't help."

"Nope," Kevin says, reaching for his drink. "How'd it go with you?"

Dean picks at what's left of his fries. He doesn't really have a bead on Enoch yet. And Martin stooling on him still feels like a bruise. Martin served with Dean's dad in Vietnam; Dean's known him a long time. Trusted him a long time. Dean chases the fries with some Coke and says, "Waste of an hour. Crowley's long gone." He rattles the ice in his cup. "Cas been in?"

"Yeah. He popped in — like, you know, _popped in_ — right after the cops left. Scared the crap out of me."

"What'd he want?"

"He showed me how to draw this." Kevin holds up a piece of paper. It's the same sigil Cas painted on Dean's kitchen floor last night; the blood has dried a dark brown. "If any other angels show up I'm supposed to stab myself in the finger and touch it. Because that's totally normal."

"That's it?"

"Yeah. After that he just —" Kevin makes a _pfffft_ sound and waves his hand.

"Huh." Fucking angels. Dean grabs a Big Mac and two of the apple pies and nods at his office. "I'm gonna get some work done. Holler if you need me."

"Okay."

Dean's office is a little stuffy, so he leaves the door open about a foot. His chair greets him with a groan. He yanks off his tie and drops it on the desk. Then he shrugs out of his jacket, rolls up his sleeves, and starts on his Big Mac. While he eats, he checks everything out. Alastair's desk has been cleared, including the clock and the picture of Lilith. The filing cabinet's empty drawers are hanging open slightly, and handfuls of papers are scattered on the floor. Dean had expected the place to be wrecked. Turned on its head like something out of a cop show. Jody must've kept Roy and Walt on a tight leash.

 _Hey, Cas. You, um. You got your ears on?_ Christ, he hopes Cas can't hear him chewing. _Kevin said you stopped by earlier. I just wanted to tell you I'm back at the office, if, uh. You know._

Dean bumps his mouse with his elbow as he reaches for his Coke. His computer wakes up, so he spends a minute looking at his email. He deletes some spam; after that, he only has two real messages. The first is from Roberts the Third and politely reminds him that Maggie Stark's divorce can't proceed until the invasion of privacy suit is settled. The second is from Lee Chambers, who wants help identifying a funky bite mark. The picture he attached takes a couple of seconds to load. It's nothing Dean's ever seen before — too blunt for a vampire, too narrow and sharp for a werewolf. He forwards it to Charlie.

He starts another prayer, but before he gets past, _Hey, Cas_ , Kevin yelps out a noise. Then he says, "Dean, you might want to see this."

"Yeah, okay." Dean shoves the last of the Big Mac into his mouth and heads out of his office. When he gets to Kevin's desk, Kevin angles his computer monitor so Dean can see it. Dean squints at the glare and asks, "What am I looking at?"

"A _Journal-World_ article about a robbery at the Starlite. It just popped up on their breaking news twitter."

Dean tilts the monitor back so he can read it without going blind. "The Starlite?"

"Yep," Kevin says. He toys with the straw in his Coke. "Do you think this is about Cas?"

The article doesn't mention a room number, but it does include a picture — a long distance shot of a bunch of cops crowded around an open door on the ground floor. Dean says, "It's gotta be. Either him or the Staff." He scans the article again, reading the high points to himself. "Discovered by housekeeping shortly after eleven... the room was completely ransacked... all the furniture destroyed... sections of the walls appear burned, but when asked about arson the police had no comment."

Kevin asks, "Are you sure it's legit? I mean — you know."

It's a fair question. The _Journal-World_ isn't exactly a rag, but it also isn't above exaggerating to sell copy. Dean scrolls back up until he finds the byline: Cassandra Robinson. Dean sighs under his breath and says, "It's legit. Cassie's on the level."

"You know her?"

"Yeah," Dean says gruffly.

"Oh." Kevin's mouth twitches. "You _know_ her."

"Yeah," Dean says again. He only dated Cassie for a few weeks. They'd both still been kids — barely into their twenties — but Dean had really liked her. Probably could've loved her. But he fucked it up before it had a chance go to go anywhere. "Years ago. I — I ain't talking about this."

Kevin shrugs and adjusts his monitor. He puts some fries into his mouth and grabs one of his books. Dean paces in front of his desk and thinks about all the shit he touched while he and Cas were at the Starlite. The doorknob. The table and the chairs. The toilet seat. Maybe the nightstand. His fingerprints are all over the place. The sheets probably haven't been changed, so his hair is in the bed. And Cas — fuck.

"Hey, Cas," Dean says out loud. Kevin looks at him like he's nuts, but he just gives Kevin the finger and keeps talking. Praying. Whatever. "Your motel room got tossed this morning. Someone's gunning for you, so. um. Keep your eyes open, all right? Lemme know if you're okay."

Kevin stares at him for a second. Then he says, "You're worried about him."

"Yeah. I — yeah."

"He's an angel."

"Yeah." Dean shrugs. An uneasy feeling settles in his gut. "Doesn't mean he can't get hurt."

 

+

 

Around two o'clock, it starts pouring. Rain smashes against the windows like it wants to break the glass and come inside for a drink. The fire escape ladder whines and shakes with the wind. Thunder rolls overhead, so hard and loud and close that it upsets the walls. The lights flicker and hum. Dean nurses a cup of tar-thick French Roast and pecks his way through his motion to dismiss. He saves after every sentence he types in case the power stops finally stops fighting for its life.

It's been about an hour and a half since he prayed to Cas about the robbery at the Starlite. Maybe an hour and forty-five. Dean chokes down a mouthful of coffee and tells himself Cas is okay. Cas is an angel, for fuck's sake. And Dean's seen him fight. He knows Cas can hold his own. He just — Christ. He hates that this prayer business is a one-way street. He hates it enough that he briefly considers heading to the Kwik-Mart down the block and buying Cas a burn phone. But the rain is coming down so fast that he'd have to swim there. And it's not like Cas would get a lot of use out of it; he's going back to Heaven in a couple of days.

Dean doesn't want to think about that. It makes something sour knot in the back of his throat. He washes it down with another mouthful of coffee and tells himself he's an idiot. Cassie wasn't the first relationship he pissed all over, but when he moved his junk back into the loft eight months ago, he'd promised himself Lisa would be the last. He can't believe he's let Cas turn him inside-out like this. They guy has only been around for two days.

After reading it over, Dean decides the motion to dismiss is decent. In the conclusion, he adds a "respectful request" for Don Stark to cover his counsel fees and court costs. He doubts the counsel fees will fly with the judge — he's representing himself, so he's pretty much asking for be paid for his own time — but he might luck out with the court costs. If he does, it'll get him out of the two hundred dollars it takes to put something on the docket. Dean saves it again and sends it to the printer. The printer makes a sound like it's dying. Then it beeps to tell Dean it's out of paper.

He doesn't have any in his desk, so he cancels the job and sends it to Kevin's printer. It's older than Dean's but less of a beast; it fires up without complaining about it first. It also gets to work right away. It's already spitting out the fourth page by the time Dean shuffles out of his office.

Kevin has his nose in a book. He keeps it there as he asks, "What's that?"

"That Stark thing."

"Oh, thank God," Kevin says. He stops reading long enough to scribble something on his notes. "Moneybags Roberts has called like three times."

Dean snorts. Legally, he has thirty days to respond. Roberts just wants the Starks out of his hair. Not that Dean blames him. "Well, if he calls again, tell him I filed it. I'm gonna meet with Henriksen later. I'll drop it off while I'm there."

Kevin's mouth opens like he's working on a smartass comment about Henriksen ripping Dean a new one. Before he settles on something, Dean hears footsteps in the hallway and holds up his hand. The footsteps pause outside the door. A shadow moves behind the frosted glass. Dean reaches for the demon shank because it's been that kind of day. The doorknob rattles. Then the door creaks open and Cas walks in looking windswept and irritated. His tie is crooked. Despite what he just told himself, Dean wants to kiss the pinched, unhappy line of his mouth.

"Hey." Kevin gives Cas a long once-over. "Why are you using the door like a person?"

Cas replies, "I was checking the building for hex bags." Then he looks at Dean and asks, "Are you all right?"

"Me? Yeah. What about you? Did you get my, um." Dean can't make himself say _prayer_ in front of Kevin. "Did you hear me?"

"Yes, I heard you," Cas says. His mouth softens slightly. "I just came from the Starlite."

"You — now? It's gotta be lousy with cops."

"It was." Cas cocks his head to the side. "The rain dampened their enthusiasm."

"That's —" Dean points at the window. Water is sheeting down the pane. "That's _you_?"

"Some of it. I can't change the weather entirely, but I can alter its current pattern to some degree."

"Holy crap. That's pretty cool." And terrifying. And kind of hot. Dean shakes himself a little before asking, "So nobody saw you?"

"No," Cas says. He touches Dean's shoulder, fitting his palm right over the scar. Then he slides his hand down Dean's arm. Their knuckles bump. Dean hooks their fingers together without really thinking about it. By the time his brain catches up enough to put some heat in his cheeks, Cas is continuing, "Just in case, I visited it on a different plane of existence. One humans can't perceive."

"Right. Yeah." Dean blinks at the ceiling for a second. He's been staring monsters in the face since he was four years old, but he still can't wrap his head around half the things Cas' says. Another plane of existence, Jesus fucking Christ. "C'mon." He nods at his office. "I'm gonna need a drink for this."

He cups his free hand around Cas' elbow and tugs a little. He takes a step toward his office as he does it, but instead of going anywhere, he hip-checks Kevin's desk and jostles into Cas' chest. Cas palms his waist to steady him. It puts them close enough for a kiss. Close enough for Cas to murmur, "Dean," against Dean's jaw. Close enough for Kevin to clear his throat.

"Don't mind me," he says airily. His eyes are locked on his monitor. "I'm just trying to get a master's degree here."

"Okay, okay," Dean says. More heat flushes his cheeks, but he huffs out a laugh. He lets go of Cas' hand and takes another step back. "We're going."

They file into the office. Cas peels off his trenchcoat, tosses it over the back of the client chair, and sits. Dean grabs the office bottle and splashes some Devil's Cut in the bottom of his empty coffee mug. He puts the bottle back in the drawer afterward — floating too much bourbon on top of that Big Mac will have him praying to the porcelain god later. His legs are restless from the two hours he spent sitting on his ass and playing lawyer, so he walks around his desk and parks it beside the page-a-day calendar he never remembers to update. It still thinks it's the end of November.

He swirls the bourbon around and asks, "Any luck with the Staff?"

"No," Cas says, shaking his head. "I searched the warehouse and several surrounding buildings down to their atoms. It wasn't there, and sensed no trace of it."

"So it never was."

Cas shakes his head again. "No."

Dean had figured as much, but that doesn't stop him from sighing about it. He says, "Great. This thing is still in the wind."

"Ellsworth is the key to finding it," Cas says. He rubs his forehead like a human with a headache. "He's the last person who actually possessed it."

"Yeah," Dean agrees. His Devil's Cut tastes faintly of coffee. "But it wasn't in his room when you tossed it. Either Ellsworth stashed it somewhere, or Uriel grabbed it after he killed him and dumped it before you caught up with him at that warehouse."

"Or it was taken from Ellsworth," Cas says. He sounds tired. "I suspect Hell has put a bounty on its recovery."

"Wonderful." Dean rolls his eyes. "A demon free-for-all. You got any more good news?"

Cas huffs out a noise. The office is getting dark, so Dean walks over to Alastair's desk and flips on the floor lamp lurking against the wall. It doesn't help much, but Dean's always been told it's the thought that counts. The rain is still going strong; the sky is a dull, heavy gray. On his way back to Cas, Dean notices a jagged, red scratch on Cas' neck. It starts behind his ear and slices straight down before disappearing under his collar. Cas stiffens slightly when Dean thumbs the skin just below it. Then he sighs and leans into Dean's hand.

Dean asks, "What happened?"

Cas hesitates. His mouth thins as he says, "I was ambushed when I arrived at the warehouse."

"Angels?"

"Just one." Cas sighs again. "His name was Theo. He thought I had the Staff."

Dean makes himself stop touching Cas' neck. Leaning back against his desk, he asks, "Did he want it for heaven, or was he in on Uriel's faith-through-Hell plan?"

"I don't know," Cas says. His knee bumps Dean's leg. "He attacked me as soon as I landed. I didn't get the chance to ask."

"Christ." Dean knocks back the last of his Devil's Cut and sets his mug on his desk. "How bad was it?"

"I'm fine."

"That ain't what I asked."

"Dean," Cas says quietly. He reaches for Dean's hand and threads their fingers together. His thumb brushes the inside of Dean's wrist. "I was never in danger. Theo wasn't a soldier. He was outmatched before I pulled my blade."

"I — yeah, okay," Dean mutters. He knows Cas is telling the truth; his scar would've hurt if there had been any real trouble. That doesn't mean he likes it. His stomach isn't thrilled about it either. It's trying to tie itself into a knot. "You kill him?"

"Yes," Cas says sadly. "I killed him and disposed of his body. After that, I searched the other buildings for the Staff. Then I heard your prayer about the Starlite and went there."

"You think that was angels too?"

"I know it was. I sensed their grace." Cas rubs the scratch on his neck with his free hand; it's already faded to pink. "I don't know _who_ — that requires a spell I didn't have the time or ingredients to perform. But that damage was done by angels."

"You wanna go back?" Dean asks. All his spell stuff is in Kansas City, but Cas could fly them there in a heartbeat. Or they could drop by Meditations. Linda keeps just about every kind of herb, leaf, root, stone, and dirt in stock. "If you —"

"No. It would be pointless." A grumble catches in Cas' throat. "The police think a robbery occurred there, and we — I cleansed it of our presence to spare you further legal troubles. The only grace it would detect now is mine."

Dean scrubs his hair. The beginning of a headache is sparking at the base of his skull. He says, "I guess it doesn't matter. I mean, whoever they are, they're after the Staff."

"I'm sure they are," Cas says. His thumb brushes the inside of Dean's wrist again. "But I — that's not what this was about. They could've searched the room without destroying it. This was a show of force."

"So... what? They just wanna remind you that everyone's gunning for you?" Dean blows out a breath. "Assholes."

Cas shrugs. "If they come for us, we'll deal with it." He says _us_ like it's easy. Like it means something. Like he isn't flying out of Dean's life in a couple of days. Dean starts to pull his hand away, but Cas squeezes it and asks, "Tell me about Crowley. Was he at his hotel?"

"No," Dean says, clearing his throat. "Sonofabitch skipped out this morning. Wasn't a total waste, though. I found out who was tailing me the other night."

"Demon?"

"Human." Dean's phone buzzes. It's probably Bobby telling him that Henriksen's back in the office. "Her name's Bela. Bela Talbot."

"A human," Cas says thoughtfully. A frown pulls at his mouth. "And you know her?"

"Uh. Kinda. She — I know her, but we ain't exactly friends."

"Is she a hunter?"

Dean scoffs. "No. But she knows her way around the territory." The office phone rings. It sounds impatient; it's either Bobby or Roberts the Third. Dean lets Kevin answer it before continuing, "She swore up and down she was shadowing Crowley, but —" He shrugs. "I don't know. Something ain't right."

"Why would she —" Cas cuts off so fast his mouth snaps shut. He tips his head to the side, and his eyes blank out. A beat passes. And another. And another. Then he blinks himself back to earth. Dropping Dean's hand, he stands and says, "I have to go."

Christ. "Angels?"

"Yes."

"Here?"

"Not here, but nearby." Cas glances at his trenchcoat; a split-second later, he's wearing it. His blade slides out of his sleeve. "You need to leave. Send Kevin home and —"

"Fuck that." Dean grabs his suit jacket and fumbles for the other blade. "I'm going with you."

"No," Cas says sharply.

"You think I can't handle myself?"

"I think they won't hesitate to kill you to get to me. And I think if you — Dean." Cas' throat bobs as he swallows. "Dean, please."

"Okay." Dean's heart is pounding like a jackhammer. "Okay. You, uh. You —"

"I'll be careful."

The air starts to rustle. Before Cas can zap out, Dean loops his hand in his tie and drags him in for a kiss. It's wet and fast and a little bit dirty, and Cas sighs into it just long enough to nip at Dean's lip. Then he disappears with a curl of wind that leaves Dean cold.

The phone rings again. Before answering it, Kevin calls out, "Just so you know: if you don't close the door, I can see you being gross."

 

+

 

Dean has Kevin drop him off at the Starlite. He figures he should get Alastair's car out of there before the police notice it's loitering. Or before the Starlite's manager sobers up long enough to connect it to the "robbed" room. Dean doesn't see any cops hanging around, but number eight's door is asterisked with crime scene tape. In the flare from the sodium lights, it looks greenish-gray instead of yellow. One of the strips has torn loose; the wind has flipped it back and tangled it up with the shrub dying under the window.

The Continental is unlocked, but the keys aren't in the glove compartment or the center console. Either Cas has them, or he started it with his mojo when he left the Bel-Aire. Dean sighs. There's probably a word for a guy who drives a hotwired car to a meeting with the DA. And whatever it is, he's pretty sure it isn't polite. After a quick glance around, he climbs into the driver's seat and fumbles with the wires under the steering column. The engine coughs like a smoker a few times before turning over. Once it's warmed up a little, Dean swings out of the Starlite's parking lot and heads for the other side of town.

The Continental's shocks are shot, and its brakes are touchier than the Impala's. It smells like a Hawaiian Breeze air freshener died under one of its seats. Thankfully, the trip to the DA's office doesn't take very long. The rain has just about returned to its regular schedule, but the downpour Cas whipped up earlier has scared everyone else off the road. Dean fiddles with the radio until he finds the classic rock station. It's doing a three-for; he turns it up for a Zeppelin set and leans on the gas. When the Zeppelin set ends, he leaves it up and pretends he isn't singing along with Bachman-Turner Overdrive. He drums his hands on the wheel. He hits Rhode Island Street and Eleventh in the middle of _You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet._

Dean parks on the street. The courthouse's lot is always crawling with cops, and the Continental hasn't been registered since 2013. The only spot big enough for a land yacht is three blocks down Eleventh. After squeezing into it, Dean reaches under the steering column and kills the engine. He stashes his weapons in the glove compartment. The car dips and groans as he gets out. He shivers; the rain is steady enough to be irritating and the wind won't stop flapping the collar of his coat. He rubs his hands together as he sloshes his way back up to the county seat. His teeth are chattering by the time he gets inside.

This close to five, the place is practically a graveyard. A handful of people are standing in line at the assessor's window. A couple more are waiting to file court paperwork. Dean walks right past them because his motion to dismiss is still in Kevin's printer. He'd been in such a hurry to get out of his office that he forgot to grab it. He cuts across to the hallway that leads to Henriksen's neck of the woods. It's emptier than the main building. The only person still manning their post is his overworked paralegal. She's rubbing her forehead with both hands when Dean approaches her desk.

He grins at her and says, "Hey, Nancy. Is your boss in?"

"He almost gave up on you." Nancy glances at the clock and lifts an eyebrow at him. Then she smiles and says, "He went down to the cafeteria to get a sandwich before it closes. You can wait inside."

"Thanks."

"There should be coffee in there. Please have some." She sighs under her breath. "He's already had enough today."

Henriksen's office is functional and plain. The chairs belong in a hospital waiting room and the desk is straight from an Office Depot catalog. It's looked exactly the same since Henriksen took over for the previous DA ten years ago. Zachariah Adler had been a blowhard with seriously expensive taste. He'd decked the place out in antique furniture and fancy rugs. Framed paintings had hung on the wall. The county had paid for most of it, which is why he got the boot and how Henriksen landed the job. That, and Henriksen's a hell of a lawyer. Not that Dean would ever admit that out loud. He'd rather stab himself in the face.

There _is_ coffee. And it's fresh; the machine is still bubbling softly. Dean's already had enough today too, but he could use the help thawing out. His fingers are still kind of numb. After peeling off his wet coat, he pours himself a cup and takes a seat in front of Henriksen's desk. The window behind it opens toward South Park. Lights flare in the sky. Dean rubs the scar on his shoulder and tells himself it's just lightning, even though it's a little too perfect. A little too blue-white.

_Hey, Cas. I just, um. You — take care of yourself out there, okay?_

The coffee machine hisses. The sky lights up again, farther to the east. Dean knows Cas can't answer him, but that doesn't ease the anxious, jittery feeling that's crawling into his chest. He lets it hammer at him for another minute. He rubs his scar again. Then he pulls out his phone and calls Sam.

Sam picks up on the third ring. Tiredly, he says, "Hey. How'd it go with Henriksen?"

"I just got to his office. I haven't talked to him yet."

"What about Castiel?"

"He's having a pow-wow with some of his, um — you know. Brothers." Dean tucks the phone against his ear so he can wrap both hands around his coffee cup. "You still at the precinct?"

"Yeah. They've got me on a cold case to keep me busy."

"How cold?"

Sam heaves out a sigh. "Frozen."

"That sucks." Dean's been hired to look into a few cold cases over the years; working them had felt like banging his head against a brick wall. All the evidence was gone. The witnesses didn't remember anything. The suspects had used the downtime to come up with better lies. "You at your desk right now?"

"Yeah, I am. What's up?"

Dean tugs at his tie. He's pretty sure it's trying to strangle him. "You got anything on Ellsworth's meatsuit?"

"Why? Do you have a hunch?"

"Maybe. Kinda." It isn't a whole hunch. It isn't even half of one. It's just an inkling. An itch behind Dean's teeth. "I don't know yet."

Papers shuffle on Sam's end of the line. He mutters to himself for a second before saying, "Okay. Joseph Gregory Ellsworth. Forty-six. Divorced, no kids. Commercial driver's license with an address in Wichita. We don't know who he was driving for yet."

"Anything on the ex?"

"He was married twice. His first wife remarried and moved to Canada about ten years ago." Sam pauses — Dean hears keyboard clacks — then, "His second wife died in a car accident early last year."

Dean sighs. They were long gone before this demon crap started. "You said he's got a commercial license?"

"Yeah. Class A. Cleared for double and triple trailers."

"I don't remember seeing a rig at the Bel-Aire."

"There wasn't one." After another pause, Sam lowers his voice and adds, "Jody and I think he got possessed on the road. Or between loads."

"Yeah. Probably." Dean sighs again. He's not sure what he's looking for, but this isn't it. "This guy got any next of kin?"

"A cell phone search turned up a sister in Hutchinson. She hasn't returned our calls."

Dean hears footsteps outside the door. He says, "I gotta go. Text me that Wichita address," and hangs up.

Henriksen comes in as Dean is pocketing his phone. He's carrying what smells like a meatball hero; it's wrapped in yellow paper that's already starting to spot with grease. He stops halfway to his desk and gives Dean a long, hard look that lingers on the cup of coffee in his hands. Then he sets the sandwich down and stares at Dean a little more. Rain patters against the window. The coffee pot murmurs. Dean bites the inside of his cheek so he won't tell Henriksen a picture would last longer.

Eventually, Henriksen crosses his arms and asks, "Comfy?"

Dean shrugs. "Sure."

Henriksen sits. He makes a point of checking his watch. "You certainly took your sweet-ass time getting here."

"Sounds like you're in a hurry to get home." Henriksen lives at work. He's got more ex-wives than that guy from NCIS and a condo in west Lawrence he only uses to shower and sleep. Dean cocks his head to the side and asks, "You got some episodes of Iron Chef burning a hole in your DVR?"

Henriksen smiles like a knife. "That's funny. But you aren't in a position to get cute right now."

"You charging me with something?"

"Do I have to to keep your ass in that chair?"

Dean stalls behind his coffee. Henriksen's poker-face could clean out an entire casino; Dean has no clue if he's bluffing or not. If he isn't — fuck. Aaron could wiggle Dean out of anything Henriksen cooks up, but he'd have to get Dean in front of a judge first. And Lawrence doesn't bother with night court, so that wouldn't be until eight or nine in the morning. Dean can't risk a sleepover in a holding cell — not with the Staff out there and Cas' family showing up to start fights.

"Nah, I'll play nice," Dean says. He rests his coffee cup on his knee. "Just outta curiosity: you got a charge you think would actually stick?"

Henriksen sits on that for a second. Then he swallows his smirk and says, "I figure I'll start out slow. See how obstructions looks on you. If I like it, then I'll work my way up to something really sexy."

"Sexy like murder?"

"You said it first."

Dean shakes his head. "Obstruction's bullshit and you know it. I didn't interfere with your warrant." He shows Henriksen some teeth. "Hell, I wasn't even there when it was served."

"No, you weren't," Henriksen admits. He leans back in his chair. "But you want to hear something funny?"

"Hit me."

"Roy and Walt took six boxes of files out of your place, but we haven't found anything on the guy who hired Alastair to sit on the Bel-Aire the night he died."

"Nothing funny about it." A blue-white light streaks across the sky, and Dean swallows some coffee so Henriksen won't catch him looking worried. He puts a shrug in his shoulders and says, "Alastair probably hadn't made one yet. He'd only had the gig a coupla hours."

Henriksen clucks his tongue. "Come on, Winchester. Alastair was a lawyer for fifteen years. Don't try and tell me he wrote all his notes on the backs of receipts and bar napkins like you."

"Alastair _was_ a lawyer," Dean points out. " _Was_. Half the reason he ditched that job was 'cause he was tired of shoveling paperwork all day."

"Uh-huh." Henriksen quirks an eyebrow. "And what about the other half?"

Dean shrugs again. "No idea. Mid-life crisis, maybe? I guess working for me was less hassle than buying a Corvette."

Henriksen studies him for a second. A thick piece of lint is caught in the collar of his suit. It's a court suit — well-cut and a shade of navy just darker than the blue in his striped tie. His chair squeaks as he shifts. He taps two fingers on the desk like a ticking clock. Dean's coffee is almost empty, so he gets up and buys himself a refill. He turns back toward Henriksen and holds up the pot. After a pause, Henriksen gives him about a third of a nod. Dean decides to take that as a yes and fills another cup.

The sky blazes again. Dean sets the coffee on the desk and sits back down. He says, "Look. I know you don't like me, but that ain't gonna get you anywhere. It's been a long time since I cried 'cause a cop didn't like me."

"I'm not a cop."

"Yeah, well, it's been even longer since I cried 'cause a lawyer didn't like me."

Henriksen shrugs. "You're right, Winchester. I don't like you. I don't like PIs. Most of them are cheap-ass blackmailers. The few who aren't crooked just get in the way of real law enforcement." He scoffs under his breath. "The last thing I need is a bunch of academy washouts running around playing policeman like this is some kind of game."

"Huh," Dean says slowly. "How about when real law enforcement's got it all wrong?"

Henriksen blinks at him. Then a dubious look crawls across his face. "You think _that's_ why you're in here?"

"Wouldn't surprise me," Dean says. He drums his fingers on his coffee cup. "I think you've been waiting for me to step in something since I walked outta your office that day."

"Something your buddy Singer can't bury, you mean?"

Dean leaves that one where it lands; picking it up isn't worth the trouble. Instead, he continues, "I also think you've got nothing on this case. Zilch. Talking to me makes it look like you ain't just sitting on your thumbs."

Henriksen snorts out a rusty laugh. "Look, I won't lie to you: I was madder than hell when you busted in here and said I had the wrong guy. I didn't appreciate you trying to tell me how to do my job. But you know what? You were right. Resnick didn't rob that bank." Reaching for his coffee, he adds, "And in case you forgot, I used what you gave me to nail his manager to the wall."

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. The headache he's been nursing for the last two hours is starting to throb like it means business. "Okay, okay, stop flirting. Just tell me what you want."

"I want Alastair's client." Henriksen's chair squeaks again. He leans his elbow on the desk and asks, "What's his name?"

"I don't know," Dean says, shaking his head. He pauses; if he has to do this song and dance again, it's safer if he sticks with the story he gave Lilith. "I was on the phone when he came in."

"Convenient. Who were you talking to?"

"Aaron Bass."

Henriksen's mouth twists. "Also convenient. You do you know we can check that, right?"

"Yeah, you can," Dean agrees. "But that'll take another warrant. I'm thinking phone records to snoop on a privileged conversation are gonna be a hard sell."

"Depends on the judge." Henriksen sips his coffee. As he sets the cup down, he asks, "Can you give me a description?"

"Dark hair. About my age, maybe a little older."

"That's all you got for me? Come on. I thought you said you were going to play nice."

"I didn't really look at the guy," Dean says, shrugging. "I was —"

"You were on the phone, right." Henriksen huffs under his breath. Then he leans back in his chair and says, "There's a rumor going around that Alastair was skimming off the top."

Dean isn't supposed to know about that; he hesitates before admitting, "He could've been."

"But you don't think he was."

"No. He — this town's small enough that it would've got back to me eventually, and he would've known that."

"Let's say he was. And —" Henriksen waves his hand "— let's say it did. Then what?"

"Well, I wouldn't've killed him," Dean snaps. "I would've fired him, and then I would've sued him. I — how does icing him get me my money back?"

Henriksen's mouth twists again. "I don't think it was about the money. Not really. I think it was about pride."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Your little PI set-up is a family business. You worked with your dad until he died, and you worked with your brother until he walked out." Henriksen gives Dean another razor-sharp smile. "I think Alastair ripping you off from Sam's desk hit a nerve."

Dean downs some coffee to douse the irritation burning in his gut. "Why didn't I just shoot him?"

"Because you know better," Henriksen says, steepling his fingers. "You've been around the block. You know how ballistics work. And you know guns never really disappear. They either come back to life as street pieces, or they hang out on the bottom of the river until you think you're in the clear."

"If that's your theory —?" Dean shakes his head and whistles through his teeth. "It's not bad for lawyer work, but it's got a coupla holes in it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It doesn't square with me wasting the other guy. And it doesn't explain why you keep scratching in the dirt for Alastair's client."

Henriksen narrows his eyes. "Tell me how this rates for lawyer work: I think Joseph Ellsworth _was_ Alastair's client. I think you hired him to lure Alastair to the Bel-Aire so you could kill him there."

"Okay. Why the Bel-Aire? Why not our office?"

Henriksen considers this for a second. "You didn't want anything too close to home. And you didn't want to bother with dumping a body." He raps his knuckles on the desk. "The Bulge is twenty-five minutes away, but the coroner figures Alastair went down between nine and ten. That leaves you plenty of time to go fishing."

"And what's Ellsworth's buy-in?"

Henriksen rubs his fingers with his thumb. "Money. Ellsworth had cashflow problems from sticking all his paychecks in his arm. His house was in foreclosure. He'd missed three payments on his rig."

"Huh," Dean says slowly. That explains why Ellsworth's ride hadn't been at the motel. "And then what —? I decided killing him was cheaper than paying him off?"

"Something like that."

"All right." Dean stands. If Henriksen was serious about that obstruction charge, he would've pulled the trigger already. "I think we're done here."

Henriksen arches an eyebrow. "Are we?"

"Yep." Dean drains his coffee and sets the cup on Henriksen's desk. "If you wanna talk to me again, put it through Bass, not Bobby."

"Sure."

"And call your stenographer. I want it on record when I tell you to stick it where the sun don't shine."

 

+

 

The parking in front of Dean's office is empty, but tomorrow is Thursday and the street sweeper does his block of Sixth on Thursdays between eight and ten. The last thing the Continental needs is a ticket, so Dean pulls around back. The only cars in the lot are the Impala and the dentist's minivan. The minivan is leaking a greenish snake of antifreeze onto the wet asphalt. After three tries, Dean gets the Continental lined up alongside the dumpster. It's just enough of a boat that its nose kisses the building before its tires bump the parking block.

He kills the engine and grabs his weapons from the glove compartment. The Continental's stale Hawaiian Breeze smell gets stronger as he leans over — strong enough that he wrinkles his nose. He can practically taste it. If he reached under the seat, he'd probably find a cardboard pineapple rotting into the dusty carpet.

He doesn't bother. Instead, he climbs out of the car and into the weather. A slight wind is irritating the drizzle. The sky has been calm since he left Henriksen's office. He doesn't know if that's good or bad. Uncertainty slithers around in his gut as he walks over to the Impala and pops the trunk.

His arsenal is a mess. He usually straightens it out after a hunt, but he'd left Bartlesville in a hurry and he hasn't had time to take a piss since. Knives are shoved in every compartment. A handful of shotgun shells have rattled out of their box. The rustiest of his three salt canisters is spitting salt through a hole in its side. Sighing, he pulls the thirty-two out of his waistband and swaps it for his forty-five. He slides the demon shank into his belt. He isn't sure what to do with the angel blade; he doesn't have a sheath for it, and it's a little too bulky for his inside pocket.

A chill sweeps up the back of his neck before he can decide. He makes himself take a breath. No sudden moves. There are two of them; their shadows are rough patches on the brick wall, tinged brown by the parking lot's buzzing sodium light. Something is scratching inside the dumpster — a raccoon, maybe. Or a possum. Dean shuts the Impala's trunk and pockets his keys. He eases the angel blade into his sleeve, balancing the the tip on the pad of his middle finger. It feels weirdly dull, like he'd need both hands to put it through a piece of paper.

He turns to face them — a blonde woman in her thirties who looks ready to spit nails and a shorter, younger, dark-haired man. His expression is as blank as they come. They're both dressed in drab suits. They aren't bothering with a light show, but Dean doesn't need a formal introduction. He knows they're angels. The air around them is practically humming. A knife-sharp thread of ozone is curling around the stench coming off the dumpster.

_Hey, Cas. If you ain't too busy, I'm outside my office and I, uh — I got company. Your kind of company._

The wind tugs at Dean's coat. He says, "Sorry, guys. Office is closed for the night."

"Dean Winchester," the woman sneers. Her voice could cut marble without leaving a mark. "We've come for the Staff of Moses."

Dean's tempted to tell her to get in line. Instead, he shrugs and says, "It ain't here. Sorry you hopped down off your clouds for nothing."

She takes a step toward him and spits out, "Liar."

"Hester," the man says, holding up his hand. Hester bristles slightly; the sodium light flickers. Then she subsides with a soft huff. The man turns his attention back to Dean. "Where is Castiel?"

"Not here," Dean replies. The angel blade bumps the inside of his wrist. He's got no chance — not against two of them. _Cas, please_. "What d'you dicks want with him?"

"Castiel defied Heaven," Hester says acidly. "He located the Staff but failed to return it. He has killed angels."

Dean shakes his head. "Listen, sister. You got it all wrong. He doesn't have your fucking Staff. He's looking for it so he can take it back upstairs. And he iced those angels in self-defense."

Anger contorts Hester's face. She opens her mouth, but the man is faster. He says, "In defending himself, he further defied Heaven. It was his duty to return for questioning when commanded."

Dean snorts. "Questioning. That's a nice word you guys got for torture." He shifts his weight a little. Attacking them is suicide, but if they come at him he wants to be ready. "Look, I don't know what Theo said to him, but Uriel was —"

The air rips open — a quick flutter beside Dean's shoulder. Cas says, "Dean, it's all right." His hand brushes the small of Dean's back.

Hester's mouth thins. "Castiel."

"Hello, Hester," Cas says. "Hello, Inias." There's something off about his voice. When Jonah and Efram zapped into the loft, he'd sounded like he was chewing on barbed wire. Now he just sounds tired. Or resigned. Maybe sad. "We should talk."

Hester starts to speak, but Inias holds up his hand again. His expression is reasonable for something that's carved from stone. He probably thinks he's the good cop. He says, "There is nothing to discuss, Castiel. You will return to Heaven and answer for your disobedience."

A train horn blares in the distance. After a tight pause, Cas nods and says, "Fine. Let Dean go and I will... come quietly."

"What? No way." Dean grabs Cas' sleeve. "I ain't leaving you with these dicks."

Hester narrows her eyes. They glint silver as she asks, "Do you presume to interfere? You? A human?"

Cas steps in front of Dean. "Leave him alone. He means no offense." Dean huffs — he _absolutely_ means offense — but Cas just continues, "I saved his life once. You know how humans can be. He believes he owes me a debt."

"Saving his life was your ruin," Hester snaps. The sodium light flickers again. "The moment you laid a hand on him, you were lost."

"Dean," Cas murmurs. Leaning back slightly, he turns his head until his breath puffs against Dean's jaw. It's warmer than the wind. "Go."

"No," Inias says, easing an angel blade from his jacket. "Dean Winchester will accompany us to Heaven. Your concern for his safety could prove useful when you are questioned."

Cas pauses again. Then he sighs and says, "Inias, please. I don't want to fight you."

Inias starts to reply, but Hester cuts him off by snarling under her breath and lunging for Cas. Dean doesn't see her pull her blade — one moment her hand is empty; in the next, a silver streak is jabbing toward Cas' throat. He takes a step back so Cas has room to work and fumbles for his blade. It catches in his sleeve and thumps against the ball of his thumb. Before he really gets it in his hand, something cold and bright slams into his chest, knocking into him with enough force that he reels back against the Impala's trunk.

Gravel crunches under Dean's shuffling feet. Just as he finds his balance, the same weird, chilly light slams into Dean again. He hits the ground, landing hard on his elbow and hip. Pain flares in his leg as he scrambles to his knees and heaves himself to his feet. His blade has rolled under of the Impala's rear tires. He kicks at it until it jerks free and skids across the asphalt. He pauses as he crouches for it, looking for an opening. His heart feels like it's hammering against a scar.

Cas blocks a blow from Inias; he catches Inias by the wrist and wrenches his arm down. He shoves Inias away with a grunt, then turns sideways to dodge Hester's swinging blade. It misses him by an inch. She charges at him. Instead of stabbing her, he punches her in the sternum. The sound of bone cracking whips around the parking lot like a gunshot.

"Dean," Cas hisses. He has blood at the corner of his mouth. "Go."

And — no. No way. Dean's not leaving him. He's not letting Cas get dragged back to Heaven. Not if it's just to save his sorry ass. Terror is clawing at his gut, but he tightens his grip on his blade and takes a run at Inias, jabbing up and in as he shoulders into Inias' chest. Inias hurls Dean away with half a gesture, but Dean's blade connects with Inias' arm. Inias grates out a noise. Grace-light winks at Dean through a hole in his sleeve as he reaches down and punches Dean in the jaw.

It feels like getting smacked with a lead pipe. Dean's head whips back. His vision swims. Before he can blink it clear, something knocks him onto his back. He sprawls into a puddle, gasping as icy-cold water seeps into his slacks. He gropes around for his blade, but a sudden, searing pain explodes in his chest, something that stabs up underneath his ribs and squeezes like a fist. It must still be Inias; Hester has Cas around the throat.

"You're a disgrace," Hester spits, smashing her fist into Cas' cheek. "You have fallen in every way imaginable."

She punches Cas again. And again. The third time, her knuckles come away bloody. Cas doesn't move a muscle. He doesn't speak. Anger flushes Hester face, a dark fever-burn that crawls between her jaw and her hairline. She rears back for another blow, but Inias reaches for her and says, "Hester, enough."

"He is corrupt, Inias," Hester insists. She clenches her fist but doesn't swing. Her other hand is clawed in Cas' collar. "He's practically human."

"Yes, he is. But our superiors want him alive."

Inias turns as he says it, and Dean spots a short, red-haired woman standing right behind him. He tries to wave her away — the last thing this shitshow needs is a witness, or another victim — but whatever Inias did to him has made him clumsy and slow. His chest aches. His scar is throbbing. His legs weigh a hundred pounds, and a pins-and-needles feeling is chasing up and down his arms.

Ginger tucks something into Inias' collar and says, " _Impetus bestiarum._ "

Inias' face twists. He hunches over and growls.

" _Dele malum hoc._ "

Growling again, Inias spins and rams his blade into Hester's back. Her eyes flash. She flares out with a scream and a crest of blue-white light that crackles and throbs. The Impala's windows rattle. A solid wave of heat Dean like the swelter from a blast furnace. His next few breaths burn his lungs and taste like lightning. The ozone in the air is thick enough to chew.

Gray sparks cloud Dean's vision for a beat or two. He rubs his eyes with the back of his wrist because his hands are gritty and wet from crawling around on the ground. When he can see again, he finds Cas standing over Hester's body. Her right wing is lost in the shadows on the asphalt. Her left is curving toward the parking spots facing the dentist's office. Sooty streaks crisscross the painted lines. Her hand is resting on Cas' foot — palm up, fingers curled. The drizzle is slowly washing the blood from her knuckles.

Cas looks up at Ginger. He slides his blade out of his sleeve and asks, "Who are you?"

Ginger raises her eyebrows. "You know, you could thank me. I just saved your life."

"You killed her."

"Someone had to."

Dean plants his hand on the Impala's trunk and pushes himself to his feet. His legs feel like water, so he braces his hip against the car as he eases his forty-five out of his slacks. The magazine is nearly full. Regular bullets won't kill a witch, but Dean figures they'll still hurt like hell going in.

He lines her up and snaps, "He asked you a question, lady."

"My name is Rowena," she says. Beside her, Inias whines softly — a restless, animal noise. "I have a proposition for you."

"All right." Dean doesn't lower his gun. "Lay it on me."

Rowena scoffs. "Out here? This weather's no good for my old bones." She spares Hester's corpse a dispassionate glance. "I'll just wait inside while you tidy this up."

 

+

 

Dean grits his teeth as he sinks into his chair. He's pretty sure he bruised a rib during the fight. Once the spike of pain passes, he opens his desk's top drawer and grabs the nine-millimeter hidden under a stack of take-out menus. It's loaded with hollow-points filled with witch-killing poison — aconite, mistletoe, chicken feet, ground malachite. Dean's never had the chance to test them out, but Charlie swears they'll drop a witch like a stone. He lays the gun on the desk and gives Rowena a once-over.

She's a tiny thing, just two or three inches over five feet. She looks somewhere in her thirties, but the smart money is on her being a lot older — witches usually are. Her long, curly hair is pulled over her shoulders in twin waterfalls. Out in the parking lot it had seemed a deep auburn; in decent light it's coppery and bright. She's wearing a cocktail dress, a green lace-over-satin number that's clearly expensive. Too expensive for a dusty pit-stop like Lawrence.

A car coughs to life out on the street. Inias lumbers in from the front office, carrying a mug Rowena asked him to fill at the water cooler. She coos, "Thank you, dear," as he hands it over; he perks up slightly at the praise. Rowena cradles the mug in between her palms and murmurs something under her breath. A moment later, the water starts to steam. She sets the mug on Dean's desk and pulls a small packet from her silver purse.

"Hex bag?" Dean asks. He inches his hand closer to the gun. The safety isn't on; he could probably get a shot off before she throws it in his face.

"It's just tea," Rowena replies airly. "I find talking shop goes best over a good, strong cuppa."

Cas stops pacing and stands behind Dean. He grips the back of Dean's chair with boths hands, hard enough to make it creak. His knuckles graze Dean's shirt as he says, "Release Inias."

Rowena slips the teabag into the mug. She toys with the string for a few moments before saying, "Sorry, no. I don't think I will." A thick Scottish accent plucks at each word. "Having a pet angel might come in handy before the night's out."

Inias makes a noise — something halfway between Rowena's name and a growl. The whites of his eyes are both yellow and bloodshot, and his sweaty face is a sickly, ashy gray. His hands are twitching. He keeps clenching and unclenching his fists.

Dean asks, "What'd you do to him?"

"It's an attack dog spell — one of my own designs. I find it dead useful when I'm in a tight spot."

"Okay."

"It compels him to protect me. Sadly, it's a right strain on the body. Most humans die within a day." Rowena glances up at Inias. Then she narrows her eyes at Dean and says, "Angels are tougher to kill; I suppose he could hang on a full week."

"So this is blackmail?" Dean asks, sliding his angel blade into his lap. It would be faster and easier to kill Inias and call Rowena's bluff. But Dean doesn't think Cas would be game. "You're just gonna leave him like that if we don't buy what you're selling?"

"Hardly. Inias is protection. I assume _that_ —" Rowena frowns at the gun "— isn't loaded with sweets."

Dean shows her some teeth. "Hardly."

"If you refuse my offer, I can find someone else. But I intend to leave here with my skin." Rowena glances at Inias again, giving him a smile that makes him snuffle and preen. "I'll release him once I'm free and clear."

"What makes you think I'd even be interested?" Dean asks.

"Please," Rowena says, rolling her eyes. "Spare me your shining armor. I know what you do for a living. I wouldn't be the worst thing you've ever made a deal with. Not by half."

"I'm a hunter."

"I was talking about your other line of work."

That one stings a little, but it isn't worth going to the mat. Dean's never taken a job that didn't smell right, and he's ducked a few that felt dirty once he was in them up to his elbows. Most PIs won't. His dad had worked every case that walked through the door. Money had been tight after Mary died, and John had figured integrity didn't pay the bills. He'd figured it didn't kill monsters, either.

"Listen, Winnie. You —"

"What do you want?" Cas asks. He drums his fingers on the back of Dean's chair.

"I believe you know the demon Crowley?" Rowena asks. Behind her, Inias whines. A sharp, animal smell is scratching at the air — a mix of wood-rot and wet fur. "He calls himself the King of the Crossroads."

"Yeah," Dean grumbles. "We — yeah. We know him. What's he to you?"

Rowena pauses behind a sip of tea. Then she says, "Crowley's my son. I want you to kill him."

Dean blinks at her. "He... what?"

"I know, I know. I scarcely look old enough to be a grown demon's mother." A smug smile tugs at Rowena's mouth. "What can I say? Good genes."

"Witchcraft doesn't hurt."

"It does have its perks."

"I don't understand," Cas says, moving to stand beside Dean's desk. The black eye Hester gave him has started to fade, but he still has a purplish knot on his jaw. Blood is smeared on his chin and lower lip. "Demon or not — why would you want your son dead?"

"Because he's a despicable little toad," Rowena says. Anger flushes her face, burning brightest in her cheeks. "Controlling the crossroads has made him insufferable. He's so full of himself his eyes ought to be brown. He — because of _this_."

She tips her head back and points to her necklace — three or four strips of leather braided tightly around her throat. Dean hadn't noticed it before; she's wearing it up high, and her hair hides the sides of her neck. It's cheap and ugly and rough. It doesn't fit with a dress that probably cost a couple grand.

Cas frowns. "Is that a binding?"

"A partial one, yes." Someone walks past the window — wet footsteps and a shadow that peeks above the café curtain. Rowena sighs into her tea. "I'm free to do as I please, unless His Highness needs me."

"And then?"

"And then — well, I can't refuse him, can I?" She huffs out a shrill, irritated noise. "If he summons me, I have to drop what I'm doing and hop to! If he asks me to cast a spell, I can't tell him to piss off!" Her hand shakes slightly as she brushes lint off her sleeve. "Three years now, he's had me under his thumb. It's been a nightmare."

Dean's cranky rib twinges. Wincing a little, he says, "Lemme guess... he's got it fixed so you can't ice him yourself."

"Yes," Rowena says tartly. Her cheeks redden again. "He — it shields him from direct harm."

Dean sighs and rubs his hand over his face. Witches have never been his favorite, and he's never met one that didn't tell lies out of both sides of their mouth. He has no idea if Rowena's sob story is true — even if it is, it isn't exactly breaking his heart. But leaving a ringer in Crowley's pocket is just asking for trouble.

He glances at Cas. "What d'you think?"

"I'm not sure." Cas studies Rowena for a few seconds. Then he walks around Dean's desk. Inias watches him warily, growling low in the back of his throat. It gets louder and more menacing the closer Cas moves. Cas holds up his hands and murmurs, "Inias, please," but Inias just bares his teeth. He shifts his weight like he's getting ready to pounce.

Rowena pats his arm. "It's all right, dear."

Inias looks at Rowena and barks out a short, frustrated noise. He bares his teeth again.

" _Calce_ , Inias," Rowena says gently. " _Calce._ "

Inias whines and edges back. Once he settles, Cas crouches beside Rowena's chair. The blood staining his mouth is almost gone. He brushes her hair to the side and carefully touches the necklace. Light flares from his fingertips; it's barely a spark compared to the kind of fireworks Dean's seen in the last couple of days, but it's enough to make Rowena shiver. Cas murmurs under his breath — something that sounds like a spell. He touches the necklace again. Then he shakes his head and stands.

"I can't remove it. It's keyed to Crowley specifically."

"So she's stuck with it until he kicks?"

"Or until his power is severely dampened."

"Dampened," Dean repeats slowly. He drums his fingers on his desk. "Devil's trap?"

Cas considers this for a moment. Then he shakes his head again and says, "Severely dampened. A devil's trap wouldn't be strong enough. We'd need a Key of Solomon."

"Great," Dean mutters. A Key of Solomon has to be carved into wood — preferably elder or palo santo — and it has to be exactly to scale. Otherwise, it's just an ugly picture of a scorpion. "Well, killing that ashy bastard was on my to-do list anyway."

Rowena smiles at him. "Is that so?"

Dean's rib twinges again. "Yeah, but it's pretty far down there. I mean, it's nearly at the bottom. If you want me to bump it up the line, you gotta put something on the table."

"What do you want?"

"That's not —" Dean cuts off, frowning. "I'm asking what you've got."

"I'm a witch, Winchester. I can get you anything — money, power, longevity, love." Rowena smooths a hand through her hair, readjusting it to cover the necklace. "If you kill Crowley, I'll cast one spell for you. Any spell. No questions, no conditions."

Dean gives her an eyebrow. "No conditions?"

"Save my own safety."

Dean nods at Cas. "There's two of us. Seems like there should be two spells."

"You're only killing one demon," Rowena counters. She drains her tea and sets the mug on Dean's desk. "Besides, I don't think Feathers needs me to give him eternal life."

"God already beat you to it," Cas says flatly.

Dean snorts. "Yeah, I think I'm gonna pass on the Fountain of Youth for right now. We'll call it a favor." He slides a pen and notepad across the desk. "Write your number down. I'll let you know when Crowley's out of the picture."

Rowena opens her purse and pulls out a business card. It's pearl-white with embossed, silver lettering — a single "R" above a Chicago phone number. She drops it on top of the notepad and says, "It's been a pleasure, Winchester," with zero sincerity.

As she stands, Dean asks, "What've you done for Crowley recently?"

Rowena barely hesitates. "Just yesterday, he had me make some hex bags. He wanted to hide a room from angelic sight."

"Anything before that?"

"Yes. About a month ago, he asked me to locate a celestial weapon. Some kind of stick."

"Any luck?"

Rowena shakes her head. "No. Tracking objects can be tricky, even for someone with my strength. It's here —"

"Here?" Cas cuts in. His voice is sharper than glass. "Here in Lawrence?"

"No. Here on earth. That's as close as I could get. Wherever this thing is, whoever has it — it's heavily warded. Very heavily warded." Rowena turns toward the door, adding, "I've never seen anything like it."

"Hey," Dean snaps, reaching for the gun. "Inias."

"Yes, yes. All right." Rowena lifts her hand, aiming her palm at Inias' chest. " _Desiste_." With her free hand, she reaches behind her and opens the door. She takes a quick step back. " _Adlevo onus tuum._ "

Inias shivers from head to toe. His eyes roll up in his head and he collapses to the floor. Cas just watches him lie there for a few seconds. Then he pricks his finger with a thumbtack and paints an angel-banishing sigil on Dean's desk. It's lopsided and about the size of a grapefruit. The blood glints darkly in the yellow glare of Alastair's floor lamp.

Slowly, Inias leans up on his elbows. He blinks a few times. Then he coughs out a two-pack-a-day noise and mumbles, "Castiel?"

"Hello, brother," Cas says tonelessly. His finger has already healed; he pricks himself again and touches the sigil. "Goodbye." As Inias is blazing out, he looks over at Dean and asks, "Are you sure that was wise? Letting Rowena go?"

Dean shrugs. "Probably not. But we don't really have a way to hold her. And we've got enough on our plate without adding a babysitting gig." A barb of ozone hooks his nose. He rubs it and asks, "You didn't wanna talk to him?"

"No," Cas says, shaking his head. That doesn't make sense — at this rate, they need all the information they can get — but Cas continues before Dean can push it. "We shouldn't stay here. It isn't safe."

"Right, yeah. We can grab a motel. Just lemme throw some stuff into a bag."

Dean had forgotten about his rib, but it reminds him who's boss when he tries to stand. Pain flares in his side, so searing and sudden that he hunches over the desk and groans. It knocks the air out of him; he sucks in a few ragged breaths before opening his eyes. He clenches his hands into fists and thumps them on the desk.

Cas hand skims across the small of his back. "You're hurt."

Dean starts to say, "Yeah," but it jerks into a yelp as a sweep of grace pulses through him. It's hot and cold and bright; Dean shivers and sucks in a breath. A long wave of goose-pimples ripples down both his arms. Cas strokes his hand up Dean's back as it ebbs away. He palms the scar on Dean's shoulder and turns Dean around.

"Better?"

Dean kisses the corner of his mouth, right where all the blood had been earlier. "Yeah. Thanks."

Cas smiles. Then he flattens his other hand on Dean's chest and says, "I'm sorry."

Another sweep of grace, but this one hurts. Jesus Christ, it hurts. It feels like getting stabbed with a hundred icicles. The pain thrums through Dean's chest, constant and needle-sharp; he grates out Cas' name and claws at Cas' wrist. He tries to squirm away, but Cas pulls him closer and kisses his temple. His breath puffs against Dean's skin.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

It fades as quickly as it came, but it leaves Dean winded and weak. His legs feel watery, and he has to cough a few times before he can speak. "What — what the hell was that?"

"I carved a sigil into your ribs — something similar to my tattoo. It hides you from angelic sight."

"Even yours?"

"Mine too. I'll still hear your prayers, but you'll have to tell me where you are." Cas kisses his temple again. And again. "Come on. We really shouldn't stay here."

"Yeah, okay. Gimme ten minutes."

 

+

 

The Sleep-EZ is a narrow horseshoe of twelve rooms curved tightly around a shabby office and a tiny, kidney-shaped pool. It's crouched on the west side of US 59 — north of the turnpike, past the last stretch of highway still considered Second Street — and it's close enough to the river that a stale, boiled-water smell hangs over it in the summer. It was built in the seventies and it shows; the flat roof is scattered with white gravel and chipped rock-siding lurks underneath the windows. The parking lot is nearly empty when Dean pulls in. It's a little after eight; ships don't start passing in the night around here until sometime after ten.

He asks for a king. He usually puts motels on a dummy credit card so he can forget about the bill, but running that scam four miles from his office feels too close to home. Instead, he pays with one of the c-notes he lifted from Crowley. He needs the change; the pizza and beer waiting in the car ate the last of his twenties. He writes the name and address from his fake ID on the check-in card. He fills in the Impala's real license plate number, but he smudges the ink with his thumb as he hands it over.

Room five doesn't have much going for it aside from a short walk to the vending machines. Wood paneling covers three of the four walls from floor to ceiling, and it's discolored with age and warped where it's cut to frame the heating vents. Gold shag carpet seethes across the floor. If someone bothered to vacuum it, it might match the gold curtains and the gold and brown bedspread. Dean tosses his bags on a table that wobbles under the weight. Its speckled Formica top makes sticky sounds when the pizza box touches it.

Cas heads straight for the bed. He zaps his clothes off piece by piece on the way; by the time he gets there, he's down to his slacks and his white shirt. He grabs the remote and points it at the TV. After crackling for a second, it pops on to local news. Dean starts on a slice of pizza as he strips out of his damp, dirty suit. He's still chewing when he climbs into the shower. The tiles look a little dingy, and the gold-flecked door has a long, spidery crack. The water comes out of the shower-head fast and hot.

Dean walks back out wearing clean boxer-briefs and scrubbing his wet hair with a towel. Cas is still on the bed. He has Dean's bathroom kit in his lap and he's browsing the motel's handful of channels with a tired, irritated look on his face. He pauses on HBO long enough to blink at last Sunday's _Game of Thrones_. Then he flips back to the local news and lays the remote on the bed. He unzips Dean's bathroom kit and pokes at the stuff inside.

"You looking for something?" Dean asks.

"No," Cas says. He pulls his hand out of the kit and frowns at what he's holding — tweezers, nail clippers, a disposable razor, a stick of Old Spice deodorant. "I'm just curious. This vessel maintains itself; I've never given much thought to human grooming."

"You've never taken a shower?"

"I've never needed one."

Dean shakes his head. "Dude, try it sometime. You won't regret it."

"Maybe." Cas fiddles with the razor for a few seconds — releasing the cartridge, refitting it on the handle, releasing it, refitting it again. He barely glances up as he asks, "How was your meeting with the police?"

"Not good," Dean admits, grimacing. He grabs a beer and kills the neck in a couple of swallows. The six-pack never made it into the fridge; the bottle is sweaty from sitting out. "I know you said you're gonna take care of it, but —"

"Dean, I will."

"Hey, I believe you." Dean gives his hair a final scrub and lobs the towel toward the bathroom. "I'm just — I'm kinda running outta time here."

"What would you need done? Clearing you completely... what would it take?"

Dean pauses to work on his beer. Then he says, "Well, uh. We gotta get rid of the bodies. And all the paperwork. And you'd have to Windex some brains. Not just Henriksen's. All the cops at the scene, and the guys who tossed my office, and the judge that signed the warrant. The coroner, too."

"Disposing of the bodies isn't a problem."

"What about the other stuff?"

Cas gives the tweezers a few clicks. Then he drops them back into the kit and sighs. "Finding the documents would be easiest if I froze time while we searched, but altering existence is incredibly taxing. So is modifying memories on a large scale. I'd be weakened for several hours afterward, and I —" He sighs again. "I can't risk it."

"Yeah, I guess not. Not if your family's gonna keep dropping in."

It's the wrong thing to say; Cas' face slams shut faster than a hurricane door. He shifts on the bed, making the headboard snap against the wall. Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. Then he washes down his foot with a couple of pulls from his beer. A slow chill is seeping into the room, pushing in through the gap under the door. Dean walks over to the window unit and flips on the heater. After a clunk and a whine, it starts moving the stale cigarette smell around.

On his way over to the bed, Dean rescues the pizza box and snags a spare beer. The headboard smacks the wall again as he sits down across from Cas. The TV's volume is down low — low enough that it's just a dull, crawling buzz. It's still showing the local news; Dean works his way through two more slices of pizza while watching live coverage of a car chase in Topeka. Cas toys with the nail clippers — unfolding the tiny file, testing its point against the tip of his finger, running its rough edge along the pad of his thumb.

Eventually, Dean clears his throat and asks, "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"C'mon, Cas."

Cas just gives Dean half a shrug. He gathers up the stuff spread out on the bed and starts packing it into the kit. He pauses at the deodorant, turning it over to read the label on the back.

Dean tugs it out of his hand and tucks it away. "Hey. Talk to me."

"I — I don't know where to start."

"From the top." Dean nudges the pizza box out of his lap so he can roll on his side and face Cas. He pops a piece of crust into his mouth and wipes his greasy fingers on the bedspread. Chewing, he says, "You left my office 'cause your spidey-sense went off. Angels, right?"

"Yes."

"Hester and Inias?"

Cas shakes his head. "No. Different angels. They — Daniel and Adina."

"All right." Dean leans back enough to grab his beer. After a drink, he says, "Rough fight? You were gone a coupla hours."

"I was chasing them." Cas zips the kit closed and sets it on the nightstand. It jostles the boxy, old-school telephone, making it chirp softly. "They evaded me several times before I finally caught them."

Out in the parking lot, a horn honks three or four times — quick and impatient, like the driver is waiting for someone. Dean asks, "Why'd they run? I mean, when we bump into these guys, they're always gunning for you."

"They were hoping to find you." Cas tips his head back and sighs at the ceiling. "They thought holding you would force me to cooperate."

"Right, yeah." A hot, uncomfortable feeling squirms under Dean's ribs. "You kill 'em?"

Quietly, Cas says, "Only Daniel. I managed to disarm and corner Adina; I offered to return her to Heaven if she'd talk to me."

"What'd she tell you?"

"Nothing I didn't already suspect." Cas sighs again. He sounds tired — so fucking tired. "Heaven has followed Hell's lead by putting a bounty on the Staff. Glory and exaltation to any angel who finds it. And they don't care _how_ it's found."

"Great," Dean mutters. A demon free-for-all was bad enough; having angels all over the place is going to turn things into a shitshow. "That why you didn't talk to Inias?"

"Yes. I didn't see the point. He would've been here on the same... directive."

 _Directive_. Jesus Christ. Dean rubs his face and asks, "So... what was up with those two? I mean, no offense, but you weren't exactly shooting to kill out there." Cas bristles slightly; Dean reaches out and slides his hand down Cas' arm. "Were they — I don't know. Like Uriel? Friends of yours?"

Cas hesitates for a moment. Then he nods and says, "Yes. Hester and Inias — we were in the same garrison. We lived together and fought together." He looks away. "We sang together."

"You guys sing? Like — like what? Hymns?"

Cas almost smiles. "Not the hymns known on earth, but yes. The idea is the same. We praise God. We thank him for creation. For granting us his grace."

"Sounds like a blast." That makes Cas huff, so Dean strokes his wrist and the back of his hand. He says, "You miss it." It isn't a question.

"I — yes. Yes, I miss it."

That uncomfortable feeling is back. It's burning and thick and trying to claw its way into Dean's throat. He breathes through it and says, "Well, maybe this ain't all bad. If Heaven ain't asking about who or how or why, if you find it first, you'll get back into the clubhouse. And that — that's what you want, right?"

Cas hesitates again. "Yes. I — I should go back. If I —" He cuts off at looks at Dean. Really _looks_. After a long, terrible moment, he says, "You want me to stay." It isn't a question, either.

Denial is easiest — easiest and safest. Probably kindest. Dean's chest is aching, but he makes himself shrug and say, "I ain't a long-haul kinda guy. I just take what comes. We've had a fun coupla days. I figure we can swing a couple more before you head back upstairs."

"Dean —"

Dean just waves him off. The knife is already in; talking about it won't make it hurt any less. He sets his beer on the nightstand and kicks the pizza box to the floor. He gives Cas a smile. Then he grabs the front of Cas' shirt and says, "C'mere."

He should keep it easy and playful, maybe let it get a little rough. He should catch Cas' jaw in his hand and dig his thumb in right at the hinge. He should nip Cas' lips a few times before pushing his tongue into Cas' mouth. But Cas breathes out a low noise as Dean leans in, and he skims his fingers across Dean's cheek. His eyes slide closed. He murmurs Dean's name, and Dean freezes, leaving them forehead to forehead and nose to nose.

Cas tips his head slightly, and their mouths brush, soft. He pulls Dean closer and threads his fingers into Dean's hair. Their mouths touch again. And again and again and again. Slow kisses that drag Dean under like a riptide. His blood rushes in his ears. Cas palms the side of Dean's neck and strokes his thumb under Dean's jaw. Dean turns into it, his lips bumping the heel of Cas' hand, the inside of Cas' wrist. He tugs at Cas' shirt. A beat later they're naked. Dean huffs out a laugh against Cas' chin.

He tips Cas back into the pillows and shifts on top of him. His dick catches in the crease of Cas' hip, and he rubs it there, moaning as heat wraps around his spine. He slides his hands under Cas' back. The bedspread is sandpaper-rough against his knuckles and Cas' skin is warm against his palms. He noses at Cas' jaw, at the side of Cas' neck, but when he finds Cas' throat he doesn't bite like he should. He kisses a mark there, just lips and tongue. He knows it won't last, but it looks good there in the few seconds before it fades.

Dean kisses another mark into the curve of Cas' shoulder, and another at the flare of Cas' collarbone. He follows the sweep of it with his mouth — down, down, down. Cas arches up, hooking his leg around Dean's hip. He murmurs Dean's name again. Dean kisses Cas' nipple, then sucks it into his mouth. He works at it until it peaks under his tongue, until Cas grabs at the bedspread and twists his fingers in Dean's hair. His dick is digging into Dean's belly, hard and damp at the tip. Dean wraps his hand around it. Strokes Cas slow.

He should push his fingers into Cas' mouth and tell him to make them wet. He should open Cas up quick. Get in, get off. Fist Cas' dick as he thrusts. Instead, he brings his hands down to Cas' hips and holds them there. He thumbs Cas' skin. The mark he left on Cas' throat is gone, but a slow flush is burning in his cheeks and jaw. His eyes are dark. He looks — fuck.

"Turn over," Dean says.

Cas has a handful of freckles on his back — one low on his nape, one at the top of his shoulder, two more on his shoulder blade, another at the dip of his spine. Dean touches them with his fingers, with his mouth. He kisses another mark at the back of Cas' neck, rubbing himself against the swell of Cas' ass as he sucks at Cas' skin, then nosing at the red-bright bruise as it fades. Cas curves into it, turning his face into the pillows and gasping out a noise. His foot bumps Dean's shin, toes curling. Dean runs his hands down Cas' sides. Palms the span of Cas' ribs. Feels Cas breathe as he mouths his way down, down, down.

He pauses at Cas' tailbone, laying a slow kiss there. Then another, and another. He nips at Cas' skin and skims his fingers into Cas' cleft. Cas stills. He leans up on his elbows and looks at Dean over his shoulder.

"Dean?"

"Let me," Dean says quietly. He shouldn't — it's too close, too intimate — but it's been a long time since he's wanted to. Since he's even had the chance. Bar hook-ups aren't worth the risk. "Let me."

"Dean," Cas says again. He drops his head. Rolls his hips a little, like he's rubbing himself against the bed. "You — yes."

Dean teases Cas with his fingers again. Then he spreads Cas open and leans in. He gives Cas the flat of his tongue — long strokes that start low and slick up over his hole. The first pass makes Cas shiver; the second makes him clutch at the bedspread. On the third, Cas chokes out a moan. It's incendiary — desperate and raw, torn out of his throat. He arches back, pushing himself against Dean's mouth. Dean slides his hands down Cas' thighs and nudges, urging Cas to bend his knees and open himself up.

The headboard thunks against the wall. Dean licks Cas slow and easy, dragging his tongue up and up until everything is wet, until spit is running down his chin. Heat pools deep in his gut. The bedspread feels like a rasp, but Dean grinds against it anyway, too wound up to care. He rolls his hips. Shudders. Pants out thin, desperate noises against Cas' skin.

Cas reaches back, his fingers slipping through Dean's hair. He's loosened up a little, so Dean gives him the tip of his tongue, fucking it in and in and in. He works his arms under Cas' thighs, sliding one hand up Cas' side and wrapping the other around Cas' dick. Cas moans again — a shapeless thing that curls up at the end like it started out as Dean's name. He jerks his hips, rocking between Dean's mouth and Dean's fist.

It only takes a few strokes. The lamp on the nightstand flickers. The window rattles with something that isn't the wind. Cas' dick pulses in Dean's hand, and then he's shaking, coming. He buries his face in the pillow and heaves out a breath. The lamp flickers again, guttering in and out with a quiet buzz.

Dean leans up and looks. Cas' skin is stubble-pink, and his hole — fuck. Dean rubs his thumb over it, barely dipping inside. He wants in there — _badly_ — but his lube is in his bag, and he's already pretty close. Slowly, he crawls up Cas' body. He presses a kiss to the back of Cas' neck, then hides another one behind Cas' ear. Then he slicks his dick with Cas' come and tucks himself between Cas' thighs.

The first thrust rips a moan out of him. Arousal jolts through him like lightning, so fast and hot and sharp that it leaves him feeling sucker-punched. He ends up hunched over Cas' back, gasping, his elbows digging into Cas' sides and his hands fisted in the ugly bedspread. Cas is gorgeous underneath him, his hair sweat-damp at the back of his neck and his spine a long curve. Dean thrusts again and again and again, everything tight and hot, all slow pressure and come-slick skin.

He drops his forehead to the warm stretch between Cas' shoulder blades. Looks down and watches himself fuck Cas' thighs. His legs shake. He breathes out against Cas' skin. He hadn't lied when he told Cas he takes what comes — that's pretty much been the story of his life. When Cas goes back to Heaven, he'll deal with it. He'll head out to the bar and have a drink. He'll pick someone up and take them back to a shit motel. But it won't be like this. It won't feel like something's arcing inside his chest, like the electric-bright spark from a live wire.

Cas shifts underneath him, grinding down against the bed. A soft noise catches in his throat. Dean kisses the back of his neck and asks, "You hard again?" It should be impossible — would be if Cas was human.

Cas nods into the pillow. "Yes. I — _Dean._ "

"C'mere."

Leaning back, Dean urges Cas to sit up on his knees. He shuffles them closer to the wall — close enough for Cas to plant his hands on the headboard. Dean spoons himself against Cas' back and works his dick under Cas' ass. Back between his perfect thighs. The angle is different, not quite as tight, but Dean's been dancing on the edge for what feels like hours. He kisses the curve of Cas' shoulder. He gets his hand around Cas' dick and rolls his hips.

The lamp's lightbulb shatters, plunging them into near darkness. The window rattles again, and Cas comes with a shudder and a moan. He grips the headboard so hard that the tired wood cracks. He pants, "Dean, Dean," in a voice like thunder and the tension in Dean's gut finally snaps. He digs his nails into Cas' hip. Comes hard and fast all over Cas' thighs.

He tucks his sweaty face against Cas' shoulder and closes his eyes. His legs are still shaking. Cas is the only thing holding him up.


	4. Thursday

Morning happens a little at a time. A door slams. Tires squeal in the parking lot. Dean's phone chimes to tell him it's eight o'clock. Dean grunts but doesn't open his eyes. He doesn't want to move. He swallows thickly. His throat is dry from breathing in the heater all night. He reaches over and slaps at his phone until he finds the snooze button.

What feels like ten seconds later, Dean's phone chimes again. A train horn blares. The plumbing hums behind the walls — someone starting their shower. Dean cracks one eye, just enough to see Cas sitting beside him on the bed. He's fully dressed except for his shoes. The TV is on, the volume down low. A finger of grayish light is wiggling through the gap in the curtains.

Dean hits the snooze button. He brings the phone with him as he rolls over and buries his face in the pillow. It's rough against his cheek, and it reeks of industrial-strength bleach. He wrinkles his nose but settles. Quietly, Cas says, "Dean." He brushes his hand through Dean's hair. Dean huffs out a noise and shifts closer. Cas is so fucking warm.

Just as Dean starts to drift off, his phone chimes _again_. Groaning, he gropes around in the sheets until he finds it. He kills the alarm and closes his eyes. Cas says, "Dean," again and slides his hand down to the side of Dean's neck. He thumbs Dean's pulse. Then something icy and bright bursts through Dean's chest — something that feels like getting splashed with cold water from the inside.

Dean jerks upright and coughs out, "Jesus Christ. You — not cool, Cas."

"Sorry," Cas says. He doesn't look sorry at all. A smile is tugging at his mouth. "I didn't want to leave while you were sleeping."

"Leave?" Dean asks, rubbing his face. His hand smells as bleachy as the pillow. "Where are you going?"

"Brazil."

"You — what?"

"You gave me the idea." Cas stands and walks over to his shoes. He looks at them; a split-second later, they're on his feet. He turns back to Dean and explains, "Yesterday, you said Uriel might've hidden the Staff before I caught him at that warehouse."

Dean blinks at him. "Okay, yeah. But why Brazil?"

"Uriel rarely came to earth. He disliked the noise and the smell and the —"

"The people?"

"Yes," Cas admits. "Uriel did find humans obnoxious and... primitive." Pausing, he glances at the TV. It winks out with a buzz. "I assumed he hid it at the warehouse because it was expedient. If he took it somewhere else, he would've chosen a location familiar to him. The Jardim Botânico is the only place on earth he visited with any frequency."

"Yeah, all right." It isn't much, but the way things are going, they can't afford to look a gift lead in the mouth. Even if it is kind of thin. Yawning, Dean gets up and walks around the bed. He says, "Sounds good."

Cas asks, "What about you?"

"Ellsworth's meatsuit crashed in Wichita when he wasn't on the road. I'm gonna head down there and poke around a little."

"Would you like me to fly you there?"

Dean shakes his head. "No." It's tempting — catching the Angel Express would save him a three-hour drive — but then he'd be stuck there until Cas finished communing with nature. Scanning the matrix. Whatever. Dean isn't above stealing a car to get back, but that's too big of a risk when Henriksen's so far up his ass. "I'm good."

"I may be gone a few hours," Cas says. He palms Dean's hip, pulling him close. "Be careful."

"'Course," Dean says, leaning in. His morning-breath is at least a misdemeanor — his tongue feels like it needs a shave — so he kisses Cas' jaw instead of his mouth. "Always am."

Cas narrows his eyes. "Pray if you need me."

"Yeah."

Cas zaps out with a burst of wind that flaps at the curtains. Outside, the sky is still a heavy, steely gray. Dean grabs his kit off the nightstand and shuffles into the bathroom. He eyeballs the shower for a second. He doesn't need one — Cas cleaned them up last night — but he could use it. His thighs ache. It's a good ache, but not something he wants to deal with all day. But he doesn't have time. Not if he's going to make it to Wichita by noon.

He settles for brushing his teeth and slapping some water on his face. He runs his wet hands through his hair until it looks like he might've combed it. He leaves his kit on the sink and walks over to his bags. He throws on jeans, an old Zep tee, and a dark red shirt — the sum total of his clean clothes. He brought a few other things, but they all need to be washed. He'll have to hit the laundromat at some point tonight.

He tucks his gun in his jeans and slips the demon shank into its sheath. After trying all his pockets, he slides his angel blade into his sleeve. It's a little awkward — it keeps catching in the fabric and banging the crease of his elbow — but it's the best he can do. He heads outside. The parking lot is nearly empty again; last night's cheaters and tourists have already crawled back to their real lives.

A light mist is veiling the Impala's windshield. Water is dripping off its wing-mirror, plinking into a puddle that's filmed with oil. The rain seems to be holding steady at a drizzle, so Dean walks over to the KwikMart that shares the Sleep-EZ's parking lot. As he's crossing the tarmac, he fires up Waze on his phone and checks the southbound traffic on I-70. It isn't bad. It isn't great, either.

Sam calls just as Dean reaches the KwikMart's door. Dean almost ignores it; calling him back on the road would kill some of those three hours. But Sam might have something — he never calls this early just for shits and giggles. Dean puts the phone to his ear and says, "Morning, Sammy."

"Good morning," Sam says brightly. "Where were you last night?"

That doesn't sound promising. Dean grumbles, "Christ. You asking 'cause you missed me, or 'cause you guys found another freaky body?"

Sam laughs. "No, no body. I called you last night to see how it went with Henriksen, but you didn't pick up."

"Yeah. Sorry about that." Drizzle is catching in Dean's hair. He ducks under the rusty, corrugated awning drooping over the propane cage. "I turned it off when I got to the motel."

"Motel? You —" Sam hesitates like someone is too close to his desk. After a beat or two, he asks, "Did something happen?"

"Just — you know. Staff shit."

"Start with Henriksen. How bad was it?"

"Bad enough."

"Yeah, I figured," Sam says. "Bobby's had his door closed all morning, and he didn't pick up when I called." Dean hears slurping — Sam drinking his coffee — then, "He did text me a picture of his middle finger."

Dean snorts. "Cranky old bastard. Henriksen's probably riding him like a carnival gag." A woman walks by with a can of Red Bull in each hand and an umbrella tucked under her arm. Once she's gone, Dean says, "He threatened me with obstruction. I told him to shove it."

"And after that?"

"After that, I went back to my place. I — some angels tried to roll me."

"Dean," Sam says. He heaves out a sigh. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Cas showed up, and he sent 'em packing." Dean toes at the pile of wet cigarette butts next to his feet. "He — my place ain't safe anymore, so we, uh. We grabbed a motel."

"You —" Sam cuts off with a noise. One of the precinct's phones rings to fill the pause. Sam asks, "Together?"

"Uh-huh."

"You — he, um." Sam sighs again. Louder. "Dean, he's an angel."

An old truck rumbles into the parking spot facing the propane cage. Dean turns away from the roar and the exhaust, saying, "Yeah, I noticed."

"And you — isn't he going home once this Staff stuff is all wrapped up?"

Dean grits his teeth a little. "He is. I'm just making hay while the sun shines."

"Dean —"

"Look, Sammy, I got a lot on my docket today. If you just called to give me a hard time, I'm —"

"Actually, I called for a reason," Sam says. He pauses to slurp more coffee in Dean's ear. "Ellsworth's sister finally got back to us."

"Yeah? What'd she say?"

"That she hasn't seen him in years."

Dean huffs. "You believe that?"

"Jody does, yeah." A phone rings on Sam's end again. Dean hears a voice that sounds like Walker. It rises and falls — he must be walking past Sam's desk. Sam says, "The sister married a friend of his right out of high school. About ten years in, it went sour. Ellsworth sided with his buddy when they split. She's only seen him three or four times since."

"Huh." The dog in the truck's front seat starts to bark. Dean plugs his other ear and asks, "Anything on the buddy?"

"Dead end," Sam says. "He team-drove with Ellsworth for a few years after the divorce, but then he got diabetes and KDOT yanked his commercial license. He dropped off the grid after that. The sister figures he's in Vegas; his gambling problem was one of the reasons she gave him the boot."

"Fuck." Dean tips his head back against the propane tank and sighs. Skipping a stop in Hutchinson saves him an hour or two, but he's getting tired of running into brick walls. "Anything on Wichita? I was just about to head down there."

"That's a dead end, too." Sam pauses again. Dean hears papers shuffle on that end of the line. "It's a garage apartment. Ellsworth used it as a flop when he wasn't on the road. He shared it with a pair of roughnecks from a rig down in the Gulf, but they had their schedules worked out so they weren't there at the same time." He gives Dean a second to swallow all of that. Then he says, "Look. I got to get back to work. If I hear anything else, I'll —"

"Yeah, I know. Thanks, Sammy."

Dean hangs up and pockets his phone. He shivers as the wind toys with his collar. The rain has picked up a little in the last few minutes; it's hitting the KwikMart's graffiti-scratched windows at a slant. The murky puddle under the propane cage is starting to ebb toward his feet. He edges away from it and scrubs a hand through his damp hair. He hates not having any leads. He hates not having a next move.

He briefly considers praying to Cas and hitching a ride back to Brazil. If nothing else, it would give him something to do for the next few hours. But Cas is busy with angel stuff; Dean would probably just get in his way. He chews on it for a couple more minutes. Then he decides to drive over to his office and get Kevin packed up. Salted windows will only keep Crowley out so long, and the angels seem to be playing for keeps. The Sleep-EZ has free Wifi. If Kevin needs a quiet place to write, Dean will get him a room.

Coffee first. A caffeine headache is already budding behind his eyes. The KwikMart is stuffy inside, like the crappy weather has kicked the heater into overdrive. The smell of cheap hotdogs and commercial-grade floor cleaner is louder than the fluorescent glare from the lights. He pours himself an extra-large medium roast and grabs a packet of powdered mini-donuts. He hesitates at the rack of burn phones near the register, standing there long enough that the clerk starts giving him the eye. He eventually settles on what's probably the last flip-phone in existence. It's just forty bucks, and he'll only lose about ten minutes of his life teaching Cas how to use it.

"Going on the lam?"

Dean jumps so far out of his skin that he jostles his cup and slops hot coffee over his hand. Hissing under his breath, he shakes it and wipes it on his jeans. Then he turns around before she gets the chance to stick a gun in his back. She's wearing brown today — a dark coat over a darker wrap-around dress. Her hair is tied up with a beige and brown scarf. She looks exhausted. The shadows under her eyes are the color of an old bruise.

"Bela," he says sourly. He takes a pointed glance around the KwikMart. A sign advertising three-for-five taquitos is hanging over her head, and the magazine stand behind her is stocked with softcore porn. "Man, you weren't kidding about slumming it."

"Places like this really are more your speed." She gives him elevator eyes that stop at every floor twice. "I'm surprised to find you out of your coffin this early."

"That's cute," Dean says, rolling his eyes. "What d'you want?"

"Enoch wants to see you."

Dean shakes his head. "Pass." He might be desperate for leads, but Enoch's just a nut — a nut who wants him dead. "He threatened to kill me yesterday."

"He admits he was... hasty the last time you spoke. But he has some information he's willing to share."

"What kind of information?"

"He didn't say." She brushes a stray hair away from her face. "Only that you'd find it useful."

Dean's caffeine headache is starting to put its back into it. He mutters, "Whatever," and turns toward the register. "Gimme his room number. Maybe I'll swing by later."

"I'll take you there."

Dean stares at her. "What makes you think I'd get in a car with you? What makes you think I'd get in a Prius?"

Bela sighs sharply and pulls a hunk of crystal out of her pocket. It fills her entire palm. It doesn't look like much at first, just the same kind of hippie hoo-ha Linda sells in the front of her shop. Then Dean notices that it's pulsing with pale, white light. Before he can take a step back, Bela grabs his arm. She barks out a word — something choppy and harsh. Dean feels a familiar tug under his ribs, and then everything goes black.

 

+

 

It's jerkier than flying with Cas — jerky enough that Dean's stomach gives a lurch. He stumbles around like a drunk when his feet hit the ground. His shin bangs into something he can't see. Once his vision comes back, he finds himself standing in a fancy hotel suite. It's the Oread; the windows are set into a naked wall made from ugly, orange-yellow stone. The other walls are the same creamy white as the plush carpet. Dean shakes himself a little. Then he turns in a slow circle so he can get his bearings and sneer at the expensive, art deco furniture.

Bela looks at him curiously. "You've done that before."

"Yeah," Dean says, glancing down at himself. His hands are empty; he must've dropped everything when the lights went out. "Once or twice."

"He said you'd been chumming around with an angel, but I — I didn't believe him."

"Yeah, well. I'm just full of surprises." Dean fumbles his blade out of his sleeve. "Where is he?"

"I'm here, I'm here," Enoch says, walking in from the next room. He's still in yesterday's frumpy cardigan and dirty khakis. His hair is still a rat's nest. At least he wiped the strawberries off his mouth. He frowns at Dean's blade and holds up his hands. "That won't be necessary, Dean. I just want to talk."

Dean just tightens his grip. "All right. Talk."

Enoch smiles at Bela and says, "That'll be all, dear." Bela barely hesitates. Then she turns for the door without a word. Her heels clack against the hardwood cut-away, sharper than gunshots. Once she's gone, Enoch gestures at the boxy, lime-green sofa. He asks Dean, "Care for a drink?"

Dean glances at the decanter on the coffee table. A crystal almost identical to Bela's is waiting beside it, glowing softly. Dean could use a belt — he doesn't give a shit that it's just after nine — but he wouldn't put it past Enoch to try and dose him with something. Sitting, he says, "No thanks. I'm good." He points at the door with his blade. "What've you got on her?"

"Dear, sweet Bela," Enoch says. He sits in one of the overstuffed chairs across from the sofa and sighs sadly. "I'm not blackmailing her, if that's what you're asking. She works for me because I can help her. Her soul is in danger."

It hits Dean all at once. "She made a deal. She made a deal, and she — her bill's coming due."

"Soon. If you listen closely —" Enoch cocks his head to the side "— you can almost hear the hellhounds licking their chops."

Dean doesn't know how old Bela is, but he figures she's still in her twenties. If her ten years are winding down, she must've been young — just a teenager. "What'd she want?"

"One of the old favorites, I'm afraid."

"Money?"

"Indeed," Enoch says, clucking his tongue. "She stood to inherit a great deal if her parents would just get out of the way. Unfortunately for her, they were hale and hearty, so —" He spreads his hands. "She asked a demon to help them shuffle their mortal coils. Now that the bomb is ticking, she regrets being so... overeager."

"And you — you can junk her contract? Keep her outta the hotbox?"

"I have a trick or two up my sleeve." Enoch reaches for the decanter. "Are you sure I can't tempt you? It's five o'clock somewhere."

Dean shakes his head. "No thanks."

Enoch shrugs again and slops about three fingers of scotch into a tumbler. He swirls it around a little before saying, "Enough about Bela. I brought you here to discuss the Staff. What do you know about it?"

"I know what it is," Dean says carefully. "I know what it can do. I know a whole lotta assholes are looking for it."

"Demons, you mean."

"And angels."

"Angels," Enoch says, his mouth twisting. "Vexing creatures, aren't they?"

It's a stab in the dark, but Dean's got nothing to lose. He gives Enoch and eyebrow and says, "You oughta know."

Enoch barks out a surprised laugh. Then he wags a finger and Dean and says, "Clever. You're very clever. But I suppose that's why you're a detective." He pauses to throw back some scotch. "What gave me away?"

"That little Portkey you whipped up," Dean says, nodding at the crystal. "And you sent Bela to fetch me. I figure you're having trouble spying on me with your mojo."

"I am," Enoch admits. He taps his thumb against the rim of his tumbler. "I lost sight of you sometime last night. Hex bag?"

"Something like that."

"Something like Castiel, you mean." When Dean doesn't bother denying it, Enoch asks, "What's _your_ interest in the Staff?"

Dean shrugs. "I'm just trying to keep my head attached to my neck."

"Really. You're not at all interested in helping your savior get home?" Enoch leans back in his chair and gives Dean a smug smile. "Yes, I know all about that. I confess, Castiel is the real reason I brought you here. I want to know how deeply he's entangled you."

"It ain't like that," Dean says. His caffeine headache is beating like a drum. "Cas wanted to keep me out of it. Crowley dragged me in when he tried to kill me."

Enoch huffs out an irritated noise. "Demons. Always going in like a lion when they should act like a lamb." He helps himself to the rest of his scotch. "I sent Crowley to suss you out because I thought a little fear might make you more cooperative. But he overplayed his hand. And you — well. I forgot that you've dealt with demons before."

"Occupational hazard," Dean mutters. He leans forward, laying the angel blade across his knees. "You know, I don't get you two working together on this. I mean, when it's all over, who gets the Staff?"

"We plan to split it."

Dean stares at him. "You're gonna — you can do that?"

"Of course," Enoch says, nodding. "Its strength diminishes with each division, but half is still nothing to sneeze at. You could split it... oh, ten or fifteen times before its power becomes a party trick."

"And then what?" Dean asks. "Hell uses their half to make trouble, and Heaven comes down to save our sorry asses? Heaven uses their half to scare us whenever they think we're outta line?"

Enoch smiles like a knife. "Who said anything about Heaven?"

"You — you want it for yourself," Dean says slowly. Fuck. He should've known. "Why?"

"Because one day, all of this will end," Enoch says. He gestures in a way that's bigger than the inside of his suite. "Lucifer will rise, and Heaven and Hell will fight a mighty battle on earth. Heaven believes they'll win, but I was God's scribe. I know exactly how much of his word was pulled out of his ass." He snorts out a laugh. "Let them fight. With the Staff in my pocket, I'll survive either way."

Dean just breathes for a second. This is so far above his pay-grade that his head is starting to spin. His shin hurts. The drumbeat behind his eyes is getting stronger. He rubs his hand over his face and sits up straight.

He says, "Well, you're wasting your time with me. I don't know where it is."

"But you know where Castiel is."

"I ain't seen him since last night."

Enoch gives Dean a slow, thoughtful once-over. Then a dirty leer crawls across his face. "This morning, I think. I can smell him all over you." He rolls his tumbler between his hands. "He's a curious thing, our Castiel. Been enamored with humanity since the beginning. I don't see the romance, myself. You guys tell fantastic stories, but you're boorish and bad-tempered. Smelly. Limited." He looks at Dean pointedly. "Stupid."

"That so?"

"You've spent your whole life chasing after things that could kill you in the blink of an eye. If that's not stupid... what _would_ you call it?"

Dean puts a shrug in his shoulder. "Someone's gotta do it."

"Indeed," Enoch says, sighing. "You stop at a diner for a bite to eat. But you overhear something strange. So you _have_ to drive across town to check it out. And you _have_ to rush in without knowing what you're up against." He shakes his head sadly. "And when you end up surrounded, you set the building on fire in your haste to save your sorry skin."

Dean hefts his blade. "Angel or not, you keep talking like that and I'm gonna ram this through your throat."

But Enoch just continues, "And then comes Castiel. He's so close to what he's been seeking, but he sees the fire. He hears one of his stupid humans screaming in pain. So he abandons his task — a task he believes he was given by God. He rescues you from certain death, but it costs him everything."

"I didn't ask him to. I never —"

"Then some children go missing. And you _have_ to go investigate. You _have_ to chase that rawhead into a stinking, moldy basement. You manage to slay the dragon, but you electrocute yourself. And when your heart gives out, Castiel flies to your side and heals you. He saves you from your own stupidity again."

"Listen, I —"

"And now — now he's back. And he's wrapped himself around you like a vine. And you _have_ to help him, because you feel like you owe him your life."

"I'm telling you," Dean snaps. There's a knot in his throat the size of a fist. "It ain't like that."

"But it is," Enoch insists. "When rumors put the Staff in Lawrence, he came to you because you're you. And you — well. You let yourself get sucked into this Easter egg hunt because he's him." He gives Dean a smile that's full of teeth. "Drama, intrigue, _and_ romance. I couldn't have written it better myself."

Dean hefts his blade again. Before he can do anything, something slams him back into the couch. Grunting, he tries to move, but he's frozen solid from the neck down. Enoch laughs. He pours himself another finger of scotch and knocks it back in one swallow. Then he stands and walks around the coffee table. He pats Dean on the head like he's petting a dog.

_Cas. Cas, I'm in trouble._

"I considered killing you," Enoch says quietly. "But that'll just send Castiel into a rage. If he's angry — truly angry — he might destroy the Staff to spite me, even if it means he never gets back into Heaven." He fists his hand in Dean's hair and yanks Dean's head back, forcing Dean to look him in the eye. "Holding you hostage might convince him to cooperate, but I think... I think it would be easier just to get you on my side."

Pain explodes in Dean's chest, sharp and furious and bright. Endless. It sears through every part of him, slicing down into his stomach and stabbing up into his throat. He chokes out a thick, wet nose. Blood fills his mouth. He can't breathe; tears well in his eyes as an invisible hand squeezes the air out of his lungs.

_Cas. Cas, please._

His scar throbs. Everything goes black.

 

+

 

"... if you've harmed him in any way, I'll —"

"Relax, Feathers. I only stabilized his wounds. Then I summoned you — which was no easy task, I might add. Not the way you're warded." A huff. "Who are you hiding from, then? The Lord himself?"

"No. Just everyone else."

Dean groans. He can't open his eyes. Everything hurts; he feels like he's been hit by a truck.

A hand touches his face. A voice — no, Cas — Cas says, "Dean, keep still. You're badly injured."

A slow sweep of grace courses through Dean's body. The heat and chill and light feel muted, like Cas is being cautious. Like he's trying to be gentle. It stretches on so long and sweet that Dean starts to shake, overwhelmed by the way it sparks and slides under his skin. From having so much of Cas so close. He turns into Cas' palm and whines out a noise. Cas shushes him, brushing his other hand through Dean's hair.

When Cas finally eases away, Dean tries opening his eyes again. The light in the room is blinding. It takes him a second to figure out where he is — the Oread. Enoch's suite. He's lying on the couch.

He takes a few deep breaths. Before he can try sitting up, Rowena leans over him. She brings a cloud of lilac perfume with her; it smells cold, like flowers left in a mausoleum. She lays a slim hand on Dean's forehead and hums softly. It almost sounds like words — something that could be a spell.

Cas bats her away. "He's fine."

"Just checking your work."

"My work is fine. _He's_ fine."

"Hey," Dean gripes. He has to drag his voice up from the bottom of a well. "Stop talking about me like I ain't here."

"I'm sorry," Cas says quietly. His mouth softens. "Can you move?"

"Yeah, I think so." Dean grips the back of the couch and levers himself up. He runs his tongue over his teeth. Grimacing, he asks, "Why does my mouth taste like an old shoe?"

"That'd be the potion I gave you," Rowena says, pulling her hair over her shoulders. She's wearing purple today — a shade too livid and bright for the dullness of the suite. "I dosed you to stop your internal bleeding. I didn't have my supplies, so I had to work with scraps from around the room."

Dean bristles a little — he hates witchcraft — but he makes himself say, "Thanks." He grabs the scotch off the coffee table and helps himself to a shot straight from the decanter. It goes down as smooth as silk, but it doesn't wash the grit off his tongue. "What happened?"

"You were beaten," Cas says.

"No, that's — I remember that." The air smells burnt, like magic and old smoke. He looks at Rowena and asks, "Why are you here?"

It comes out accusatory, but Rowena barely rolls her eyes. She explains, "Crowley summoned me early this morning. He wanted me to look in on Enoch. I overheard him talking with that woman what's been running errands for him — Bela, I believe? The way he spoke... I thought he might try something like this." She crosses her arms. "We have a deal, Winchester. I won't have you dying before you hold up your end."

"And you just —" Dean waves his hand. "You just busted in like the cops?"

Rowena shrugs. "The ward on the door was simple enough. A novice could've opened it."

Dean treats himself to another shot. It goes down even lighter and smoother than the first. "How'd you get rid of him?"

Rowena points at the floor. A scorched patch of carpet is edging under one side of the coffee table. It almost looks like a pair of sooty feet. She says, "I threw holy oil on him and started conjuring a fire. Seemed the quickest way to get rid of an angel." She shrugs again. "He certainly flapped off in a hurry."

Cas splits an odd look between Rowena and the singed carpet. Then he sits down beside Dean and draws him into a hug. He smells good — ozone and fresh-cut grass. He huffs out a noise against Dean's jaw.

"You need to be more careful."

"Yeah, I'm starting to get that."

Cas huffs again. "I heard you praying. I could feel you, but I couldn't find you."

"Sorry." Dean knows Rowena's watching them, but he — he doesn't care. He palms the side of Cas' neck. "I forgot you can't see me anymore."

Rowena clears her throat. "Well. Now that you lads are sorted, I'd best be off. I wouldn't want Crowley to catch me slumming."

She grabs a long, black shawl off the back of the chair. After shaking it out, she swirls it around her shoulders. Murmuring under her breath, she drags her hands over her hair and face. Her hair fades to a silvery-white, and her face ages about twenty years, lines forming around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes. The spell leaves an aftertaste in the air — something bitter and earthy and dark.

As soon as she's gone, Cas pulls back to look at Dean's face. Frowning, he asks, "Enoch did this to you?"

"Yeah," Dean says, nodding. He sets the decanter on the table so he doesn't buy himself another shot.

"And he — Rowena believes he's an angel?"

"He is."

"Are you sure?"

Slowly, Dean says, "Yeah, I'm sure. He knocked me around with his mojo." He squeezes Cas' knee. "Why? What's wrong?"

Cas' frown deepens. "Dean, I know every angel in Heaven. None are named Enoch."

"He — wait, wait. He said — fuck." Dean snaps his fingers a few times. "He said he was God's scribe."

"No," Cas says. His voice is almost a whisper. "No. That's not possible."

Dean's legs are achy and restless, and post-healing exhausting is starting to tug him down. He stands to get his blood moving again. "He talked about writing. He said he'd seen God's word — whatever that means."

"If Enoch is God's scribe, then his true name is Metatron." Cas leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Lightning flashes through the window behind him. Rain is running down the pane in thin streams. "He's been missing for millennia. Why would he return for the Staff now?"

"He said he wants it for himself."

"That doesn't make sense," Cas insists. A stubborn crease gathers on his forehead. "His place at God's feet was a cherished one. He would be welcomed back in Heaven without question."

"No. I mean, he wants it for _himself_ ," Dean clarifies. "He said Heaven and Hell were gearing up for some kind of fight. He wants the Staff as insurance in case Heaven loses. He figures it will help him keep his head above water." When Cas doesn't say anything, Dean presses, "Is that true? Is there some kinda Revelations shit coming down the pike?"

Cas is silent for a long moment. Then, quietly, he says, "There is an apocalypse prophecy, but it — it's centuries away from being fulfilled. And it's unlikely it would unfold the way it's recorded in the Bible."

That's a deeper, darker rabbit-hole than Dean can handle right now. He asks, "Any luck in Brazil?"

"No. What about you?"

"Zilch."

Cas sighs. "I'd hoped you'd find something. Ellsworth is the last solid lead I've had since Pontiac."

"Pontiac," Dean mutters. Something — fuck. He doesn't know. Just _something_. It's nagging at him like meat between his teeth. "You went to Pontiac chasing a rumor, right?"

"Yes."

"And a demon told you where the Staff was stashed?"

"Yes." Cas gives Dean a curious look. "What —"

Dean waves him off. "The demon. You — tell me about the demon."

After a short pause, Cas says, "The vessel was a young woman, maybe twenty years-old. She was recently possessed — so recent that she's suffered a minimal amount of harm. I intended to exorcise her and heal her when I finished questioning the demon."

"But...?"

"She was rescued," Cas says. Another flash of lightning arcs across the sky. "I'd taken her to a motel. Seven demons swarmed the room. I smote six, but the other managed to break the devil's trap. She —"

"She smoked out," Dean finishes. Something doesn't feel right; demons don't usually play team sports. "The girl — what'd you do with the girl?"

Cas pauses again. Then he says, "I healed her and wiped her memory. After that, I returned her to her place of employment. She served food at a local restaurant."

"It was a diner," Dean says. His pulse is hammering under his skin. "One of those boxcar jobs. It was right off the highway."

"Yes."

It clicks into place all at once. Clicks like a gun going off.

Dean snarls, "Fuck," and clenches his fists. "Fuck." He kicks the coffee table; it tips sideways and crashes to the floor. The tumblers shatter. The crystal wobbles in a circle. The decanter rolls into the chair, glugging scotch onto the carpet. "God fucking damn it!"

"Dean," Cas says quietly. He touches Dean's shoulder, right over the scar. Nudges until Dean turns around. "Dean, what's wrong?"

"We've been had." Dean hurls one of the ugly, art deco lamps across the room, but the sound of smashing glass only makes him grit his teeth. "This was an inside job."

"I don't understand."

Dean scrubs at his hair. "Enoch — or, Metatron. Whatever. After he got here, he started talking about you. How he knew you'd rope me into helping you. And he knew everything about us — about you pulling my ass outta that fire." He can't breathe. He feels like he's being strangled from the inside. "Too much — he knew too much."

A horrible look crawls across Cas' face. "Dean —"

"I should've fucking seen it," Dean shouts. He'd been a wreck afterward — so screwed up about his dad getting burned alive that he couldn't think straight — but still. "I can't believe I didn't see it. Rougarous don't live in packs. And that chick at the diner, she said they chased her out. That's — they would've eaten her."

"You think," Cas starts — slowly, like he can't make himself finish. Like if he doesn't say it, it won't be true. "You think Metatron set us up?"

"I know he did," Dean says. His hands are shaking. "He put the rougarous in that warehouse. He put some kinda ward on the door so they couldn't get out. Then he stuffed a demon into a waitress and had her tell a story my dad couldn't refuse." A hysterical laugh claws into Dean's throat. "The sonofabitch probably set the fire, just so we'd start screaming on cue."

"Why?" Cas asks. He looks lost. Gut-punched. "Just so he could end my search?"

Dean nods. "Yeah. He'd never rest easy with it — not with you still on the job."

"All right," Cas says. He stares out the window for a few seconds before continuing, "If this is true... where is the Staff now?"

Dean barely has to think about it. "Pontiac. It's probably still in Pontiac. I bet it never left that warehouse." He catches his hand in Cas' sleeve. "When they yanked you back upstairs, they told you it'd been moved. You — did you go back?"

Cas shakes his head. "No. I believed them." There's a rough hitch in his voice. "They told me it had been moved, and I believed them."

"'Course you did. You guys are supposed to buy whatever Heaven is selling. Metatron was counting on it."

"Dean," Cas says. He grabs the front of Dean's shirt. "Dean, I'm sorry. Your father —"

"Don't talk like that. This ain't your fault." Dean wants to wrap Cas into a hug. Kiss his jaw. But he shouldn't. Not anymore. An empty ache spreads through his chest as he says, "C'mon. Let's go get your ticket home."

Cas pauses. Then, quietly, he says, "No."

"What—? Why not?"

"If I take the Staff to Heaven now, Metatron and Crowley will kill you. We need to deal with them first."

Dean would rather just rip the band-aid off. Get it over with. But he knows Cas is right, so he makes himself nod. He pats his waistband and hip to check for his weapons. His forty-five and the demon shank are fine, but his angel blade is on the floor. As he stoops to get it, he notices a piece of paper stuck to the bottom of his boot. It has a number written on it — KS: D-3-6-7-4-2.

"What's that?" Cas asks.

"Looks like a license plate," Dean says, shrugging. "I'll run it when we get back to the office."

"Your office isn't safe."

Dean folds the paper and stuffs it into his pocket. "We ain't staying long. I just wanna get Kevin outta there before anymore heavy-hitters show up."

"Fine," Cas says. He takes Dean's hand.

Dean lets himself be pulled in.

 

+

 

They land in the front office, right beside Kevin's desk. Kevin isn't there, but his backpack is on his chair, yawning open around his books. Half a pot of coffee is turning to stone on the machine. Kevin's computer is on stand-by. It perks up with a soft chirp when Dean steps away from Cas and bumps the monitor with his elbow.

It's almost eleven. Kevin doesn't really keep to a schedule; he makes snack runs whenever the office is slow, or whenever he has writer's block. Dean tells Cas, "He's probably just grabbing some lunch," and heads into his office. He hopes he isn't lying to himself.

He flips on the overhead light and Alastair's floor lamp. The combined glare stings his eyes so much it makes him blink. That second shot of scotch was a mistake. Between its slow burn and the aftermath of getting healed, all Dean wants to do is curl up and sleep for a month. The rain's constant throb isn't helping things any. Dean sinks into his chair and rubs his hand over his face.

There's a pink post-it stuck to his landline — a note from Kevin that says, "Took your motion to dismiss to the courthouse. You're welcome."

Dean relaxes a little. He unsticks the post-it and folds it in half. He tosses it at the wastebasket, but it catches on the rim and flutters to the floor. It's in good company — a ripped business-reply envelope and two empty ballpoint pens — so Dean leaves it there. He sighs and rubs his face again.

Cas walks in from the front office as Dean is fishing his phone out of his pocket. His tie is crooked and loose. He's carrying two mugs of coffee. He sets one on Dean's desk before grabbing one of the client chairs.

"Thanks," Dean says, clearing his throat.

The coffee is sour and thick from sitting on the burner, but Dean's so desperate that he'd drink mud if it had any caffeine in it. The first sip burns his tongue. It smells like tar and tastes worse. Still, he chokes back as much as he can in one go. Then he thumbs his phone awake and dials Donna's number.

She picks up on the third ring, saying, "Dean-o," in a sunny voice. "I'd ask you how it's hanging, but I think I already know."

Dean digs up a laugh. "The rope ain't around my neck yet. You got a minute?"

"For another weekend warrior? Of course I got a minute." She pops her gum in Dean's ear. "Whatcha need?"

"Kansas license plate. D-3-6-7-4-2."

"A commercial vehicle, huh?" She pauses to peck at her keyboard. A fax machine starts beeping as she says, "Alrighty. Looks like a 2013 Peterbilt 367. It belongs to a — oh. Oh, heck."

Dean pauses as he reaching for his coffee. "Lemme guess. Joseph Gregory Ellsworth."

"Yup."

"Listen, Donna. I don't wanna get you in a fix, but I gotta find this heap. If it turns up anywhere —"

"Oh, I know right where it is." She snaps her gum again. Then she slips into a whisper, saying, "It got repo'ed about a month back. It's sitting on an impound lot in Wichita. A place called Heavy Haulers on Kellogg Drive."

"Thanks," Dean says. He hangs up and looks at Cas. "You get all that?"

"Yes. Heavy Haulers. Kellogg Drive, Wichita." Cas sets his coffee mug on Dean's desk, right beside the out-dated calendar. "If Metatron has been looking for this truck, maybe Ellsworth stole the Staff after all."

"Maybe." Dean's gut is telling him it's in Pontiac. Still, he says, "Wouldn't hurt to check it out."

They both stand. Dean walks around his desk. Before he can start checking his weapons, Cas touches his arm. "No, Dean. I'm going alone."

"No." Dean shakes his head and works his angel blade into his sleeve. "No way."

"This could be a trap."

"'Course it's a trap."

The air rustles like Cas is getting ready to rip it in half. "You could get hurt."

"So could you," Dean points out. He — fuck. He doesn't need to be babysat. Anger burns in his cheeks and jaw. "Stop trying to bench me just 'cause I'm a stupid human."

"No. I dislike putting you in danger," Cas says. He moves his hand up to Dean's shoulder.

Dean shrugs him off with a grunt. "You know what —? Fuck you. I hunted for years without you, and I'm gonna keep hunting after you fly back upstairs. I can watch my own ass."

"Dean," Cas says sharply. Light glints behind his eyes. "Do you have any idea what you mean to me? Any idea at all?"

Dean looks away. "Don't. Not when you ain't gonna be here much longer."

Cas makes a low, rough noise. He grabs the back of Dean's neck and yanks him into a kiss. It's hard and fast and filthy — more teeth than tongue. And then it's over. Cas zaps out with a snap of wind. Leaves Dean holding onto nothing.

"Better get used to it," Dean mutters.

Rain rattles against the windows, brighter than buckshot. The sky is dull and dark and colorless. Dean makes himself breathe; restless anxiety is gnawing at his anger. His gut is churning double-time. He's never been good at waiting, but it's worse when he's stuck sitting out a fight. He hates not being there. Not knowing what's going on. Not being able to help.

He heaves out a sigh and scrubs at his hair. He downs the last of his nasty coffee. Then he finishes the cold mouthful of dregs Cas left behind. After that, he heads into the front office and puts on a fresh pot. He spills grounds all over the table, and he slops enough water everywhere that steam curls up from the burner. He paces the length of Kevin's desk while he waits for it to brew.

He's halfway to wearing a trench in the floor by the time Kevin finally comes back. Kevin pauses in the doorway, holding a brown bag of what smells like burritos. He blinks at Dean for a second before saying, "Sorry. I didn't get you anything. I didn't think you were coming in today."

Dean waves him off. "Don't worry about it. Just get in here."

Brakes squeal out on the street. Kevin asks, "Is everything okay?"

"No. This thing with Cas is getting kinda hot." Dean pulls out his wallet and tosses two c-notes on the desk. "You gotta clear out for a coupla days. If you don't wanna go home, take that —" He points at the money "— and get a room at the Sleep-EZ. Me and Cas are in five, so shoot for something on the other side."

"Good idea," Kevin says. His mouth twitches. "I don't want to hear you two doing it all night."

Dean glares at him. "This ain't a joke. When you get there, salt the windows and draw a devil's trap on the door."

Kevin sobers immediately. Nodding, he says, "Okay, yeah." After a pause, he pokes the burrito bag. "Can I eat first?"

Dean wants to say, "No," but he knows that's just his nerves talking. Five more minutes isn't going to matter. "Yeah. Just make it fast food. We —"

The air splits open behind him, whipping up a wind that blows all the papers off Kevin's desk. He whirls around expecting Cas. Instead, he finds a red-haired woman swaying on her feet. A red-haired _angel_. Her face is bruised, and she's bleeding from her mouth and throat. Grace is leaking out of her from a dozen places at once.

She wheezes out a wet, raspy noise and sinks to her knees. She sways again. A bundle drops out of her jacket and rolls across the floor. She reaches for it, hunching down onto her elbows. It's too far away.

She grabs at Dean's jeans. "Dean Winchester?"

Dean crouches down beside her. The light pouring out of her makes her shimmer like a mirage. "Yeah, that's me. You — what's your name?"

"Anna," she whispers. "Castiel. Wanted you to have that." She coughs, spattering more blood on her lips. "Safe. Keep it safe."

"Yeah, I will," Dean says, forcing his voice steady. "I'm gonna keep it real safe." She must be from Cas' garrison. One of Cas' friends. _I have a sister named Anna, but I haven't seen her in almost a decade._ Carefully, he touches her hair. "You — can we help you?"

She coughs again, deep in her chest. More blood bubbles from her mouth. "Can't — can't fly. Heaven. Send me to Heaven." Her eyes flutter closed. "I'll survive if you — Heaven."

"Okay, yeah. We can do that."

Dean shakes the angel blade out of his sleeve. He starts to stand up, but Kevin says, "Got it." His hand is already bleeding. Wincing, he slaps it to the sigil on the wall. Anna blazes out in Dean's face, heat and light and a sharp crest of ozone. He turns away from it, closing his eyes. Once she's gone, he leans over and grabs the bundle.

It's about two feet long. It's wrapped in burlap and tied with twine. A warding symbol is drawn on it — nothing Dean has ever seen before. He worms a finger into a loose fold until he finds paper. Underneath that is a layer of what feels like felt. He digs a little deeper, biting his lip when he finally touches wood. It's unfinished; his fingernail catches a rough edge. It doesn't tingle or spark or hum. He isn't sure how the Staff works — if he needs to _think_ at it to get it going. He's afraid to try. If it suddenly starts raining frogs, Crowley and Metatron will know something's up.

Kevin's eyes widen. "Is that —?"

"I think so, yeah," Dean says, getting to his feet. "It's — fuck. I gotta ditch it. It ain't safe here. Not without Cas."

"Where?"

"I don't know yet." That's a lie, but Dean figures Kevin's better off in the dark. He shrugs into his jacket and hides the Staff underneath it. On his way out the door, he pauses to point at Kevin's desk. "C'mon. Pack your shit and get outta here."

Kevin gives him a salute. "Sure thing, boss."

Out in the hallway, Dean prays. He starts with, _Hey, Cas_ , but stops because he doesn't know if the airwaves are clear. If Metatron is listening in somehow. Or Crowley. His best bet is keeping it vague. _Gotta run an errand. Be back in half an hour. Forty-five, tops._

He hesitates when he gets to the parking lot, because — fuck. The Impala is back at the Sleep-EZ. With all the crap that's happened this morning, he'd forgotten about that. He glances at the Continental. A steady stream of water is pouring off its fender. Benny's place is only a couple of blocks away; walking there would be faster than hotwiring an old car on a cold, wet day. Dean zips his jacket closed around the Staff. He hunches his shoulders against the wind and walks up to Sixth.

He heads a block west, passing a nail salon and a donut shop and a payday loan that also rents mailboxes. The light from their neon signs paints the wet sidewalk pink and blue and green. The next building in line is a "massage" parlor that gets raided by the cops about once a month. After that is a hole-in-the-wall that sells fried chicken. The heavy, greasy smell makes a queasy feeling rock through Dean's gut. He shivers. A river of rainwater is rushing in the gutter, deep enough that it's nearly lapping over the curb.

Traffic is almost zero, so Dean jogs across the street against the light. He splashes through a puddle when he gets to the other side, soaking his boots and the bottom of his jeans. The building on the corner is for lease; three kids are sneaking cigarettes in its shadowy entryway, smoke clouding around their heads. Benny's place is right next door. Like most pawn shops, it looks closed despite being open. Rusty accordion gates are drawn across the windows. The "We Buy Gold and Silver" sign is dark; Benny never remembers to turn it on.

The door jangles open. Benny's liquid, Louisiana drawl rolls out to greet Dean at the first display case. "Well. Look what the cat dragged in."

"Morning, Benny," Dean says, taking a quick glance around the shop. A guy is lurking near the rack of used electric guitars. Benny is slouched on a stool behind the jewelry counter, his hands in the pockets of a red and black flannel coat. A fisherman's cap is angled over his eyes. "How's the weather treating you?"

Benny shrugs one shoulder. "I was born on a houseboat. I ain't afraid of getting wet." He scratches his jaw and gives Dean a long, up-and-down-look. A smile rustles his beard. "You buying, selling, or pawning?"

The door jangles again — Guitar Guy letting himself out. Dean waits a couple of beats. Then he leans his elbow on the counter, right beside an old Victrola. He says, "I need a favor."

"C'mon, chief." Benny tsks under his breath. "We've talked about you using me as a safe-deposit box."

"Last time," Dean promises. Like he didn't say that the last time. Or the time before that. Or the time before _that_. "I'm really in a spot."

After a pause, Benny asks, "Stolen?"

Huffing, Dean shakes his head. "No way." That's how they met; three or four years ago, Dean helped Benny out when the cops accused him of being a fence. "I wouldn't do that to you."

"Yeah, I know," Benny says. He chuckles a little. "I'm just giving you a hard time." He raps his knuckles on the counter — a sharp, uneven drumbeat. "Let's see what you've got."

Dean unzips his jacket and hands Benny the bundle. Benny looks at it for a second. Then he looks up at Dean and raises an eyebrow. He tugs at the twine. Worries the warding symbol with his thumbnail. Hefts it like he's trying to gauge its weight.

Eventually, he mutters, "Whatever floats your boat," and walks into the back room. A minute later, Dean hears the slow creak of a floor safe being opened. It closes again with a clang. As he comes back out, Benny asks, "You want a ticket?"

"Yeah. Just in case."

Benny gives him another eyebrow. "In case of what?"

Dean waves that off and slips the ticket into his wallet. "Thanks, Benny. I appreciate it."

He turns and heads for the front of the shop, winding past all the stuff that's on hock — a vintage tea kettle, a worn pair of ballet shoes, a bunch of electronic junk, a pair of fifties cabinet TVs. Saxophones hang from the wall. A drum kit is collecting dust underneath them. One of its cymbals is cocked against a stack of milk crates full of original vinyls.

As Dean reaches the door, Benny says, "Hey. Just how deep is this hole you've dug yourself?"

Dean glances over his shoulder and forces a smile. "About five and a half feet."

The storm is still holding steady when he gets outside. Rain is tapdancing on the sidewalk. Wind is jerking Benny's accordion gates. The municipal trashcan across from the pawn shop is flooded, welling with soggy garbage — chip bags, newspapers, Starbucks cups, plastic sacks. Dean zips his jacket and flips up his collar. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and hurries back down the street.

_Okay, Cas. I'm on my way back._

 

+

 

Cas is waiting in the front office when Dean gets back. He looks beat to hell. His trenchcoat is torn, and his shirt and tie are splattered with blood. Dark bruises are blooming on his temple and under his eye. A throttle mark is ringing his throat. It's a nearly perfect imprint of a hand, huge and purplish-red and angry.

Fuck. Their clock is ticking louder every minute, but Dean — he's going to take whatever's left. He's going to take all of it. He'll worry about regretting it later. After Cas is gone.

He grabs Cas' face in both hands and kisses him. He strokes his thumb over Cas' cheek and sucks at Cas' lower lip. He coaxes Cas' mouth open. Slides their tongues together. Swallows the slow, sweet sound Cas makes. He feels like he can't get close enough. He tries anyway, kissing Cas until they're both half-hard and breathless. He chases Cas' mouth when Cas finally leans away and murmurs his name.

"Dean, I'm fine."

"You ain't fine," Dean says. He touches the bruise at Cas' throat with the tips of his fingers.

"I'll heal," Cas insists. His voice is sandpaper-rough, and he has a bloody thumbprint underneath his ear. "Did you get it?"

"Yeah."

Cas breathes out a soft, relieved sigh. "Good. That's good."

"You think —" Dean cuts off with a grimace. He doesn't want to burst Cas' bubble, but his gut won't let Pontiac go. "You think it's the real deal?"

"I — I'm not sure," Cas says slowly. "The warding on it prevented me from sensing anything. I didn't have time to break through it."

Kevin turned off the coffee maker when he left, but he didn't dump the new pot Dean brewed. Dean figures it's still hot enough to drink, so he pulls away from Cas and grabs a cleanish-looking mug off Kevin's desk. As he's pouring, he says, "Well, I ditched it just in case. It's —"

"No," Cas says, shaking his head. "Don't tell me. It's safer if I don't know."

Something warm and heady unfurls under Dean's ribs. The Staff is Cas' ticket home, but he's trusting Dean with it like it's nothing — trusting Dean to hide it, to protect it, to give it up when it's time for him to go. Dean clears his throat. He — Christ. He doesn't know what to do with that.

Cas saves him by saying, "Tell me about Anna."

"She, um. She was pretty banged up," Dean admits. He leans his ass on Kevin's desk, not quite sitting. "We sent her back to Heaven."

"That — that's good. She should survive, then. We heal faster in the presence of God." Cas falls silent for a moment, and a complicated look crosses his face — soft and sad and wistful. "Anna led my garrison. I — she was a friend. When I saw I was outnumbered, I prayed to her."

"And she helped you out."

"She was glorious," Cas says quietly. The bloodstains on his shirt have faded, but his trenchcoat is still torn. The holes are singed around the edges, black and curling. Grace-burnt. "Determined. She — her instinct to protect one of her soldiers outstripped her concern for her own safety." He looks away with a sigh. "I owe her a debt."

The coffee is serviceable; Dean sips it before asking, "Demons?"

Cas nods. "Ten of them. Five were armed with angel blades." His hands clench at his sides. "We smote them."

"Yeah," Dean mutters. Ten demons is nothing to sneeze at, but killing them doesn't solve their real problems. "But Crowley'll know something's up when they don't come home for dinner." He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. "We gotta get him off the board. Metatron, too."

"Yes, we do."

"I mean —" Dean shrugs and swallows some more coffee. "I guess we could always snuff Crowley the old-fashioned way. Just summon him into a trap and shank him."

"We could try," Cas says, frowning. "But I assume he's forced Rowena to protect him from something like that."

"Yeah." Dean sighs again. He hadn't thought about that, but now that Cas has mentioned it, it's stupidly obvious. Crowley isn't keeping a witch under his thumb for shits and giggles. "And Metatron — I ain't gonna be much help against him. And no offense — I know you can handle yourself — but putting everything on a one-on-one between you two seems like a bad bet."

Cas' mouth thins. "Metatron was never a soldier. In a fair fight, he'd be outmatched. But —"

"But he wouldn't fight fair. He'd have about twelve different tricks up his sleeve."

Cas grunts out an irritated noise. He starts to pace, adding to the same trench Dean was working on earlier. Dean leans back and opens the top drawer of Kevin's desk. He digs around for something to eat — chips, or crackers, or a candy bar. Anything that'll make up for the breakfast Metatron made him skip. All he finds besides paperclips is an empty tin of licorice Altoids and a a couple loose cough drops that are covered in lint.

He goes back to his coffee. It's cool enough now that it's slightly bitter, but he nurses it anyway and tries to think. They need something that'll put Crowley and Metatron on ice. Something that'll put their _mojo_ on ice. Spells are the obvious choice; Dean just doesn't know where to look. His own stash of books is light on demons — it mostly covers how to send them back downstairs — and he's got zip on angels. Zilch. Zero.

Cas stops pacing. He rubs his forehead and grumbles out another noise. Dean gives him a slow once-over. His trenchcoat has finally mended itself, and his bruises have been dialed down to yellowish shadows.

Standing, Dean asks, "How are you for flying? I've got some friends that — I don't know. They maybe can help us. But they're about four hours from here, and we ain't got that kinda time."

A gust of wind batters at the window. Cas asks, "Where?"

"The Letters bunker. It's in Lebanon, Kansas." Dean drains the last of his coffee and sets his mug on the desk. "Locust Street, just south of the county road."

Cas fuzzes out a little. He tips his head to the side; his mouth falls open and his eyes glaze over. A beat passes. And another. Then he blinks himself back into the here and now and shakes his head.

"I can't find it," he says. Wind slams into the window again. "It must be warded. You'll have to lead us."

"Me? You — I can do that?"

"You can. Although you may find it unpleasant."

"Whatever," Dean says, pulling Cas close. Almost everything about the last four days has been unpleasant. "Let's just get it over with."

The air rustles softly. Dean feels a familiar, fluttery pressure against his back, but it isn't the same as before. It's thin and slow and unsteady. Jerky like Cas is trying to force it. His eyes are screwed shut. Sweat is beading on his forehead, and he looks a little white around the mouth. He must be exhausted — more exhausted than he'd wanted to admit.

"Hey, it's all right," Dean says, squeezing Cas' arm. "We can drive. If I lead-foot it, it'll be closer to three hours."

Cas huffs under his breath. Then he grabs Dean's jacket and shirt and tugs them down over Dean's shoulder. He slips his hand under the sleeve of Dean's t-shirt, fitting his palm right over the scar. It throbs faintly. A soft shiver sparks up Dean's spine, just bright enough to make Dean's toes curl.

"This will help," Cas says. He wraps his other arm around Dean's waist. "Now, focus on our destination. Clear everything else out of your mind."

It's different when he's the one behind the wheel — colder and darker and more terrifying. He can feel the restless _nothing_ under his feet. He can feel the curve of the earth. The way it spins. He can feel Cas twisting and folding reality. Shifting them through time and space. The bunker flares like a beacon in his mind, and he turns toward it. Fumbles for it. Reaches out in a way he doesn't really understand.

They crash-land in the bunker's kitchen. Dean glimpses white cabinets and stainless steel shelving as his vision flickers in and out. Hitting the ground is a sudden shock; it takes him a second to get back inside his skin. His gut lurches. Everything tilts to one side without any warning. Then it tilts back just as sharply. Dean grunts and sways into Cas' chest. Since he's already there, he noses at Cas' jaw until Cas turns and brushes their mouths together.

Someone clears their throat — Charlie. She's sitting at the table in Hogwarts pajamas. Her bright red hair is a bird's nest, and a spoonful of cereal is frozen halfway to her mouth.

She says, "Don't mind me. Please continue kissing strange men in my kitchen."

Dean flushes a little. "Sorry. Charlie, this is Cas. He's —"

"He's an angel, right?" When Dean just blinks at her, she grins. "The fancy entrance gave it away, dude. Besides, when you called here asking about angels out of the blue, I figured you'd either found one or were trying to find one." She smirks at him. "Looks like you're dating one. Dating's good, too."

Dean flushes a little more. He inches away from Cas and changes the subject by eyeballing Charlie's pajamas. "It's almost noon, kiddo."

"Eh." Charlie shrugs and spoons some cereal into her mouth. "We don't really keep a schedule around here. Not unless we're hunting."

Dorothy breezes into the kitchen and says, "Don't let her lie to you. We don't really keep a schedule when we're hunting, either." She's wearing an old-school flannel nightgown, the kind with frills at the collar and cuffs. Her dark hair is piled on top of her head; it wobbles as she bends and kisses Charlie's cheek. "Morning, Red." She kisses it again and adds, "That one's from Gilda."

Charlie huffs quietly. "Is she planning on staying in bed all day?"

"For now," Dorothy says, glancing at Cas. "The... angel is making her nervous."

Cas holds up his hands. "Tell the faerie I mean her no harm." His voice seems to echo slightly, like he wants it to carry. Like he wants Gilda to hear it for herself. "Her people have special gifts. I would be honored to meet her."

"An angel," Dorothy says thoughtfully. She gives Cas another long, skeptical look. "I guess that means Heaven's the Real McCoy. I never would've thought." She cocks her head at Dean. "You boys here to play or to work?"

"Work, unfortunately." Dean pauses. He doesn't really know how to explain. And they don't have the time to waste. Instead, he skips straight to the point, saying, "We're up against a demon and an angel. We gotta find some way to trap 'em. Or power 'em down."

"Is the demon a bruiser?" Charlie asks, leaning her elbow on the table. Her wrist is wrapped in a plain bandage. Gilda must've put her foot down about the steel in the splint. "Like, bigger than a devil's trap?"

Dean nods. "Yeah. He wormed outta the last one I locked him in. Took him about ten minutes. And he's got a witch in his pocket. She might've whipped something up that'd block a summoning."

"Huh," Dorothy says, opening the fridge. She stands there for a minute, eating grapes straight from the bag while cold, musty air seeps into the kitchen. Then, chewing, she asks Cas, "Can angels even _be_ trapped?"

After a pause, Cas says, "Yes. Inside a burning ring of holy oil. But this angel poses the same problem as the demon. He's likely warded against a summons. And he would expect us to try something like that."

"That's the other thing," Dean says. His stomach is growling again. "These guys are clever sonsofbitches. We need something outta left field."

Charlie stands and walks her cereal bowl to the sink. "Well, all our angel books are in the library. I left them out because I figured you'd be stopping by sooner or later."

"Thanks, kiddo," Dean says. "You —" His stomach interrupts him. This time, it rumbles so loudly that everyone looks at him. "Sorry."

Dorothy snorts and pulls a carton of Chinese out of the fridge. She spears it with a fork from the dish-rack and hands it over. "Shrimp fried rice."

"Awesome."

Dean digs in as they file into the library. It's as stuck in the thirties as the kitchen — hardwood floors, naked brick walls, stone columns propping up the textured ceiling. Soft, buttery light glows down at them from antique pendant lamps. Bookshelves and filing cabinets are tucked into every sliver of available space. There's a dull hum coming from the next room — something that sounds like old machinery.

The tables are heavy, mahogany things. Charlie waves them to the one in the center of the room. As they grab chairs, she digs into a large stack of books. Most of them look older than dirt. A few look even older than that.

She says, "So, the original Letters peeps weren't convinced angels were actually a thing. Almost everything we've got is theoretical — like, crazy theoretical."

Dean's mouth is full of rice, but he says, "Whatever. We'll take anything you got."

"Well, there's this," Charlie says, passing Cas a book. Leather flakes off the spine as he takes it. "It talks about binding an angel's power to an object."

After giving it a quick scan, Cas shakes his head. "No. This won't work. The author misunderstands how we access our grace, and that flaws the whole spell."

"Okay. There's also this." Charlie flips open another book and pushes it down the table. "It's supposed to force an angel from their human host."

"Interesting," Cas murmurs. He runs his finger down the page. "Mechanically, this could work. But it's —" He sighs. "I'm sorry, but it's not what we need. If we remove him from his vessel, he'll either return to Heaven or take a new one."

"Yeah," Dean says, coughing as rice sticks in his throat. "We need to pin him down, not chase him off."

"All right," Dorothy says slowly. "What about — oh. Hey, Princess."

Gilda is standing in the doorway, her shoulder leaned against the jamb. She's holding a mug shaped like a cat that's gently curling with steam. Dean blinks at her for a second; every other time he's seen her, she's been in full faerie regalia, or something close to it. Now she's wearing faded red sweats and a Lumberjanes shirt he's pretty sure belongs to Charlie. Her hair is hanging over her shoulder in a messy braid.

"Nice duds," he says, smiling. "You finally going native?"

She glances down at herself and shrugs. "Human clothing is ugly, but comfortable." After a pause, she walks over to the table and sets the mug in front of Cas. "You've overexerted yourself, Seraph. The tea will restore your strength."

A soft, grateful look crosses Cas' face. Quietly, he says, "Thank you. Your trust is appreciated."

Gilda nods at him. Then she turns to Dean and says, "My people have a spell I believe would suit your needs. It binds a creature's power completely. Until it's lifted, they would essentially be human."

"Yeah," Dean says quickly. It's about time something went their way. "Yeah, that's — that sounds perfect. Do we cast it _on_ 'em directly?"

"You would cast it on a space. The smaller the better. Anything larger than this —" she gestures around the library "— would diminish its effects. Anyone who enters the space would be bound." She gestures to Cas. "Including your mate."

"Mate" sticks under Dean's ribs a little — enough that he has to clear his throat before saying, "Okay. We, um. We — Crowley's a salesman." He takes a breath and chances a glance at Cas. "And you said Metatron was never a soldier. If everything's... equal, or whatever, I figure we could take 'em in a fight."

Cas nods into his tea. "Yes. We could."

"You gonna be okay with that?" Dean reaches for Cas' hand and laces their fingers together. "With — you know. Having a squeeze put on your mojo for a coupla hours?"

"I won't like it," Cas admits, mostly to his tea. It has a bright, medicinal smell, sharp enough that it itches Dean's nose. "But this is our best option. If they're afraid of dying as humans, it would give us the upper hand."

Gilda perches on the arm of Charlie's chair. "You'll need a someone to cast it. It's beyond a human."

Dean hesitates. He likes Gilda. She's always been cool to him. But he isn't in a hurry to owe a faerie too many favors. "We've got a witch on deck. She — is that enough juice?"

"Depends on the witch."

"Hey," Charlie says, narrowing her eyes. "Why are you mixed up with a witch?"

"Rowena is —" Dean sighs and waves his hand. "She's got a beef with the demon we're after."

"Wait," Dorothy says slowly. She taps her fingers on the table. "Rowena? Fancy Scottish broad with a lot of red hair?" When Dean nods, she snorts and cuts a glance at Charlie. "That's the one who rabbited on us in Duluth. You remember?"

"Oh, yeah." Charlie shoots Dean another glare. Wagging a finger, she says, "You watch yourself with her."

Dean ducks his head a little. "We will. Promise."

Gilda slides to her feet and heads for a bookcase on the other side of the library. Its middle shelf is bowing under the weight of a large, wooden box. It doesn't have a lock or a knob or a handle. It pops open after Gilda touches it and hums something under her breath. She pokes around inside it for a minute or two. Then she comes back with a small scroll tied with string. It looks older than Charlie's books — old enough that Dean's afraid to even touch it. When Gilda puts it in his hand, he almost expects it to crumble to dust.

It doesn't, so he says, "Thanks, Gilda."

"Yes. Thank you." A smile pulls at Cas' mouth. "For both the spell and the tea."

Dean stands and shovels the last of the rice into his mouth. He walks around the table so he can ruffle Charlie's hair and clap Dorothy's shoulder. "I hate to eat your leftovers and run, but we're kinda on the clock here."

"Someone had to eat it," Dorothy says. "I was tired of it stinking up the fridge."

Cas leans over and touches Charlie's arm. A quick flash of blue-white light flashes under his palm. Goose-pimples chase up Charlie's neck; she gasps and squirms in her chair. After flickering for a second, her bandage disappears. She stares at Cas with wide eyes.

"Dude. What was that?"

"I healed your wrist."

Charlie stares at him a little more. Then she cannonballs out of her chair and wraps him in a hug. Cas goes a little stiff, but that just makes Charlie squeeze him tighter.

"You're awesome," she says, tucking her head under his chin. "Thanks."

Cas awkwardly pats her back. "You're welcome."

After giving Cas another squeeze, she rounds on Dean. She sticks her wrist in his face and says, "You know what this means? This means I don't have to skip LARPing next weekend. And _that_ —" she pokes Dean's chest "— that means you have until next Friday to get yourself out of this pickle."

"Charlie —"

"You promised."

"Yeah, all right," Dean says, smiling. "Next Friday." He ruffles her hair again and reaches for Cas. "C'mon. We gotta hit the road."

"Where?"

"A place called Meditations. It's in Lawrence." Dean slides his arm around Cas' waist. "Second Street, near Lincoln."

 

+

 

They fly straight into Linda's secret back room. With Cas in the driver's seat, the ride is a lot less bumpy. So is the landing. Dean's vision only swims a little, and his gut barely notices at all. He doesn't have to ground himself too long before stepping away from Cas. He just needs two or three deep breaths.

"You're getting better at that," Cas says.

Dean snorts. "At what? Not puking on your shoes?"

"Yes." Cas glances around the room. It's crammed with hunting supplies from floor to ceiling — knives, guns, ammo, stakes, rosaries, anti-possession charms. Jugs of holy water. Bulk canisters of salt. Eventually, he turns back to Dean and asks, "What's LARPing?"

"Oh," Dean says. He chuckles under his breath. "It's um. It's this funky fantasy role-playing thing. People get dressed up in King Arthur costumes and fight each other with fake swords. It's — it's pretty cool, actually." He pauses to run his fingers over a bronze dagger hanging on the wall. He could use a new one; both of his are notched near the guard. "That's how Charlie met Gilda."

Cas tips his head to the side. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Charlie's really into it. She's like queen of a whole faction." Dean checks the price-tag on the dagger and whistles through his teeth. "A few years ago she was at one of their — I don't know. Tournaments? Conventions? Whatever. People in on the game were dying freaky. This was before she hooked up with Dorothy, so she asked me to come down and help her figure it out. Turned out, some guy had trapped Gilda and was using her to kill anyone who crossed him."

"And you freed her?"

"Yeah. Well, Charlie did most of the work. I was busy getting roughed up by an empty suit of armor." Dean grabs a box of silver bullets. Then he notices that they're on sale and grabs two more. "You guys seemed to hit it off."

Cas' mouth softens. It makes Dean want to kiss it. "She was kind to me."

"'Cause she gave you that tea?"

"It's what the tea meant," Cas says. He tests a slim iron boot-knife against the pad of his thumb, watching as a pinprick of blood wells up and then disappears. Once it fades, he looks at Dean and continues, "Faeries wield power wherever they walk, but it's limited on earth compared to their home. Gilda was further limited because she was underground. By offering me that tea, she offered me the strength to harm her."

"Huh." Dean gives in and kisses the corner of Cas' mouth. Twice. Then he nudges Cas' arm and says, "C'mon. We gotta get this show on the road."

Linda's hunting stock is hidden down a short hallway behind the cash register. The hallway is blocked off from the rest of the shop by an ugly bead curtain that thinks it's part snake. It likes to wrap around Dean's arms and catch in his pockets and collar. He clacks through it sideways because he's learned not to give it too wide of a target. When he turns around, he bumps right into Linda's shotgun.

"Oh. It's you," she says tartly. She doesn't lower the gun.

It's a sawed-off, snipped close to the forend. Dean says, "Yeah, it's me," and bats at what's left of the barrel. It's only loaded with rock-salt, but he doesn't feel like getting pelted in the chest right now. "What gives?"

Linda eyes Cas suspiciously. Her trigger-finger looks itchy. "Is this the angel?"

"You — yeah." Dean glances at Cas — _A little help, here?_ — but Cas' mouth it twitching. Jesus Christ. "Seriously, what gives?"

"Where's Kevin?" Linda counters. Her voice slices the Enya in the air to ribbons. "He tells me you're mixed up with demons again, and then he doesn't call for two days."

"Kevin's fine," Dean says quietly. The shop is empty except for Tracy, a full-time hunter who works for Linda between gigs because she hates hustling pool. She's dusting the tarot card display and hanging on every word. "I put him up in a motel until this all blows over."

Linda stares at him for another second or two. Then she pats his arm and says, "Good. That's good. Come on in." She stows the gun under the cash register and smooths her hair. She's cut it since the last time Dean saw her, short enough that it tapers off at her chin. "You must need something."

Dean winces a little. "What makes you say that?"

"You only visit when you need something." She sighs and flaps a hand at him. "Let's hear it."

"We're casting a spell," Dean says, handing her the scroll. "We need whatever's on here."

Carefully, Linda unrolls the scroll on the counter. She runs a finger down the words as she reads the the ingredients list. She pauses twice and mutters under her breath. When she gets to the bottom, she taps it a few times before looking up.

"I have everything in stock except Makassar ebony."

Dean frowns. "Ebony? Like, black wood?"

"Makassar ebony," Cas says thoughtfully. "It's variegated wood, black and dark brown. Native to Indonesia." He looks at Linda. "How much do we need?"

"A stick will do. About this long." Linda spreads her hands a foot apart. "As straight as possible. It's for the wand."

Cas nods and zaps out.

Linda blinks at the empty space for a split-second. Then she looks at Dean and says, "I suppose the rest of this is going on your tab."

Dean winces again; he's pretty sure he owes her close to a grand. The silver bullets clink as he sets the boxes on the counter. He pulls out his wallet and gives her the last of Crowley's c-notes. "Whatever's left, just put it toward my bill. Is Missouri in?"

"Yes," Linda says, pocketing the money. She edges past Dean on her way to the herb shelf. "Make it quick. She has a reading in fifteen minutes."

Missouri's room is at the back of the shop. Dean walks around a low table displaying crystals and geodes, and another for empty charm bags in every size and color. Behind that is a long row of bulk-bins filled with different kinds of stones. Missouri's doorway is flanked by a pair of bookcases stocked with seven-day candles. Dean hesitates at the bead curtain. It isn't as touchy as the one up front, but Missouri sometimes meditates between clients. Dean interrupted her once, and she yelled at him for twenty minutes.

He pokes his head in first. It isn't like most psychic dens — no incense or brass bowls or velvet drapes. The white-painted walls are bare. A lightly patterned cloth is spread across the table. Two fat, lavender-scented candles are burning in the windowsill.

She's drinking tea and doing a crossword, so Dean eases all the way through the beads and says, "Hey, Missouri."

"Dean Winchester," she says, putting down her pen. "You don't come by for months, and now you show up here with trouble at your back."

"Yep." Dean's guilty as charged. "Sorry."

"I'll just bet." She stands with a sigh and walks over to him. After studying him for a moment, she says, "There's a dark cloud around you. Here." Her hand flutters near Dean's ear. "And something lighter, too — lighter, but just as dangerous. Maybe more dangerous." She huffs out a soft noise. "But you already know that. You want me to tell you if it comes out right."

"Yeah. I — yeah."

She huffs again. "I'm a psychic, boy. I can't predict the future. I just read the energy people carry around."

"I know, I know," Dean says. He sighs and rubs his face. "I'm just — I'm really in over my head, here."

Missouri narrows her eyes and looks at him again. Looks at him long enough that an uncomfortable itch crawls up the back of his neck. Finally, she says, "These forces — they're very sure of themselves. They think they have you all figured out. If I was in the business of giving advice, I'd tell you to play out of their hands."

"You _are_ in the business of giving advice."

"Well, then I guess you'd better listen to me."

Dean nods and says, "Yeah." Then he digs up a smile for her. "Thanks, Missouri."

As he turns to go, Missouri catches his arm. She slides her hand up to his scar and murmurs, "Saved by the grace of God. I told you that after the fire, but you didn't want to hear it."

Dean shrugs slightly. "You never said anything about angels."

"I wasn't sure, then," Missouri admits. She touches the necklace peeking above her collar, a silver chain threaded with protective charms. "I see what I see. Sometimes that's the whole picture; sometimes it's just bits and pieces." Gently, she squeezes Dean's shoulder. "When the time comes, you have to let him go. You know that, right?"

A sour knot rises in Dean's throat. He has to breathe through it before saying, "Yeah. I — I'm gonna."

"He'd stay if you asked him to. I'd just about bet on it." She gives Dean's shoulder another pat. "But he's bigger than this place. Bigger than you. If he stays, it has to be his choice. Otherwise, he'll —"

"I'm — I wasn't gonna ask," Dean says quietly.

Missouri tsks under her breath. "You were thinking about it."

He _hasn't_ been thinking about it. Not really. If Cas was human — then yeah, maybe. But he isn't. He — fuck.

Dean digs up another smile. He says, "Thanks," again and heads back into the shop.

Cas is waiting for him at the cash register. His trenchcoat's belt is twisted where it spans his back. He's picking through the impulse-buys Linda has laid out on the counter in round, wicker baskets — crystal chips, hematite rings, worry stones, tiny brass bells. He's holding a reusable Hy-Vee bag with handles that look ready to snap. A narrow stick is poking out of it. It's bulging on one side around what's probably a bowl.

"We got everything?" Dean asks.

"Yes," Cas says, hefting the bag. The stuff inside rattles softly as it bumps his leg. "Everything but a plan."

Dean scratches the back of his neck. "I wanna stash this junk in my car first." The devil's trap drawn inside the trunk will keep out Crowley and any of his stunt demons. He hopes there's something similar that'll work on angels. "We gotta get Rowena lined up before we do anything."

Cas considers this for a second. "We'll also need a way to find them. Something that isn't a summons."

"Maybe. Maybe not." The shop is still empty, but Linda and Tracy are eavesdropping with everything they've got. Dean moves closer to Cas and lowers his voice. "If what Anna brought me is the real deal, they're gonna come after us sooner or later."

"And if it isn't?"

"Honestly? I figure they're still gonna come after us." Dean taps his fingers on the counter, making the brass bells jingle. "Putting ten demons on Ellsworth's rig was overkill, Staff or no Staff. You were supposed to die in that rat-trap."

A muscle tics in Cas' jaw. "One of my superiors once told me that I've never been good at following directions." The air rustles sharply. He grabs Dean's arm and yanks them out into the cold.

They land a few feet away from the Impala. The Sleep-EZ's parking lot is wrapped inside the eye of the storm. The rain has eased to a light drizzle, but lightning is flashing to the south, close to downtown Lawrence. Fresh clouds are gathering over Midland, purple-gray and rolling low along the horizon. Everything feels heavy. Ready to split open. Dean gives it an hour, maybe an hour and a half.

He pops the Impala's trunk and stows the Hy-Vee bag. He almost ditches the pawn ticket, but Kevin's Cherokee is parked three spaces down and that gives him a better idea. He fishes a slim-jim out of his arsenal and walks over. After a quick glance around, he eases it into the door and hooks it around until he finds the lock rod. It releases with a tired click.

"Dean," Cas says quietly. His hand skims the small of Dean's back. "Why are you breaking into this car?"

"It's Kevin's." The Cherokee is straddling a large puddle; Dean's foot skids on the wet asphalt as he leans across the driver's seat. He opens the glove compartment and tucks the pawn ticket under Kevin's registration. "It ain't really _breaking in_ if you know the guy."

The Cherokee's door swings shut but doesn't catch. Dean finishes the job with his hip and heads back to the Impala. He tosses the slim-jim in his arsenal. Then he digs around until he turns up a piece of chalk. It's barely an inch long, but he figures it's enough to do the trick.

He taps the trunk-lid and asks, "Is there a sigil or something that'll keep angels outta here? Something like a devil's trap?"

"Yes," Cas says, nodding.

"Okay. You —" Dean spots a woman watching them. She's lurking at the mouth of the vending machine alcove. She — fuck. _Bela_.

Before Dean can say anything, she puts a finger to her lips. She points at his room and shakes her head. Then she takes a step back, moving deeper into the alcove. She gestures for Dean to follow.

"Here," Dean mutters, putting the chalk in Cas' hand. "I — I gotta talk to her real quick."

He checks the parking lot again. It looks clear, so he pockets his keys and walks toward the vending machines. Once Bela's in reach, he grabs her arm and spins her back against the ice hopper. He snaps, "Cute trick you pulled earlier. You come back to finish the job?"

"He told me he wanted to talk," Bela hisses. She tries twisting out of his grasp. "I didn't know he'd get violent."

"And I'm just supposed to believe that?"

"I don't much care what you believe, Winchester." She shifts her weight like she's thinking about kneeing him. "Let me go."

"Not so fast," Dean says. He leans back a little, just enough to get his balls out of the line of fire. "What're you doing here?"

"They're in your room."

A horn honks out on the street. Dean says, "Yeah. I got that much, thanks. Why'd you get kicked outta the clubhouse?"

Bela hesitates for a split-second. "I'm meant to be calling you right now. They told me to scream when you answered. Imply that they're hurting me. If you asked, I was to give you a location on the other side of town."

"Why?" Dean asks, frowning. "Just so they can set up an ambush?"

"Yes," Bela says. The ice hopper rattles and hums against her back. "You'd rush to rescue me. Your office isn't safe, so once you'd realized it was a goose-chase, you'd presumably return here."

"And then what?" Dean drops her arm, but he doesn't move back. Doesn't give her enough space to pull her gun.

"I would be waiting for you, looking roughed up." Bela pauses and pats the pocket of her coat. "That witch Crowley keeps gave me a potion. It's a glamor of some sort — drinking it would make me come over in bruises. I would swoon as you approached, and your sense of chivalry would override your paranoia." Her lip curls slightly. "You'd carry me inside to be healed without checking for a noose first."

It's not the smoothest plan Dean's ever heard. But he's just dumb enough sometimes that it probably would've worked. He asks, "Why're you telling me this? You — oh." He snorts out an empty laugh. "You're worried they ain't gonna help you after all."

"I —" She cuts off with a sigh. "I'm running out of time."

Dean hears footsteps behind him — Cas. He asks Bela, "So, what? Now you want me to fix your mess? You want Cas to fix it?"

"Dean," Cas says quietly.

Dean waves him off. He gives Bela a sneer and continues, "What makes you think we'd help you? You killed your parents just to cash in."

"Yes, I did," Bela says tonelessly. "They were lovely people. And I killed them. And I got rich. I can't be bothered to give a damn."

"You —"

"Dean," Cas says again. He touches Dean's temple. A shot of grace spears through Dean's head like an icepick.

It comes to Dean in flashes — Bela's cold, dark bedroom; her father's bourbon-sour breath; the bruises on Bela's arms and legs; her mother shouting, calling her names. Bela crying on a rain-damp swingset. A white-eyed demon in a kid's meatsuit, offering her the chance to make it stop. It rushes by too fast for Dean to see all of it, but he sees enough. His gut lurches up into his throat. He punches the soda machine a couple of times just to keep himself from puking.

Once he can breathe again, he makes himself look at Bela. She's glaring murder at him, but — yeah. He figures he fucking deserves it. He asks, "Why didn't you say something?"

"No one believed me," she says sharply. "No one ever believed me. I'd no reason to think _you'd_ be the one to start."

Dean figures he deserves that, too. "All right. You — okay." He rubs his hand over his face. "How long've you got?"

After a pause, Bela says, "Six days."

"Okay." That's cutting it close, but Dean's hoping Crowley will end up dead sometime tonight. He grabs his phone and starts pecking out Rowena's number. "I — I gotta make a call. Then we'll — I don't know. We'll work something out."

Turning, he steps deeper into the alcove. He leans his hip against a potted tree that's doubling as an ashtray. A half-empty bottle of 7Up is sitting on the stone bench beside it. The rock-siding climbing the alcove's walls is chipped and dotted with old gum.

Rowena picks up on the fifth ring. She sighs in Dean's ear before saying, "I was napping, Winchester. I do hope you're calling with good news."

"Not exactly," Dean admits. "I'm gonna need your help on this."

"That wasn't part of our deal."

"If you want him dead, you're gonna have to play ball," Dean says. He toes at the base of the stone bench. "Consider it my favor."

Rowena sighs again. Then she says, "Yes, yes. All right. What do you need?"

"I'm at the Sleep-EZ motel," Dean explains. "There's a black '67 Impala in the parking lot. In the trunk, there's some stuff for a spell. You're gonna cast it on room five." A gust of wind whips above the alcove, whistling against its cinder block roof. "Come in once it's set, and we'll get Crowley's leash off you."

"Fine."

Dean hangs up and pockets his phone. He scrubs at his hair as he heads over to Bela and Cas. Bela looks exhausted; she's probably been too hell-spooked to sleep. Cas is standing at the mouth of the alcove, watching the storm press in. His hair is sticking up. The tails of his trenchcoat are dancing in the wind.

"C'mon," Dean says quietly. He runs his hand up Cas' back. "Let's do this."

"Do you even have a plan?" Bela asks.

"Yeah." Dean doesn't have a plan. Not really. Nothing except what Missouri said about playing out of their hands.

Bela's mouth tightens. She huffs under her breath, but she follows Dean and Cas as they walk toward the room. Her heels rattle against the concrete path: _clack-clack-clack_. Roof gravel is scattered across it. Brownish weeds are growing in the cracks.

Outside the door, Dean tugs Cas aside and palms the back of his neck. He rubs his thumb behind Cas' ear and murmurs, "Hey. Whatever I say in there, you gotta trust me, okay? You — just trust me."

"Of course," Cas says, easy as anything.

The room is dark. A wave of sulfur greets them just past the threshold. An invisible hand wraps around Dean's throat and squeezes until everything goes black.

 

+

 

Dean wakes up to a dull, throbbing headache and a faceful of motel carpet. An orange-red glow is pressing at his eyelids, too bright for the only working lamp in the room. His mouth tastes like blood. Nothing hurts except his throat; he probably bit his tongue when he hit the deck. He doesn't move. He keeps his breathing even and slow.

"Let Dean go," Cas says. His voice is above Dean's head. He must be standing — standing and somewhere to Dean's right.

"That's not going to happen," Metatron says. He sounds amused. "You and your... human are in this together."

The floor creaks — Cas shifting his feet. "I'll give you the Staff."

Crowley scoffs. "I've heard that one before, Angel. You offered it up the other night."

"In exchange for taking Dean and his brother to safety," Cas says. The floor creaks again. "Which you did not do."

"And _you_ didn't have the Staff. It seems neither of us were bargaining in good faith."

Carefully, Dean cracks one eye. The carpet is on fire about a foot and half from his face. He tenses on instinct, but then he realizes that it isn't giving off any heat. The flames are roughly knee-high. Instead of spreading, they're guttering in place. There's a smell in the air, something dark and musky and slightly sweet. Something that feels old — myrrh and saffron and oil.

Holy oil. It hooks in Dean's nose and makes him sneeze. He swallows the first one, but the second and third jerk his whole upper body. So much for playing possum until he came up with a real plan.

"Well, well," Crowley says slowly. "Lover-boy has finally decided to join us."

Metatron hums under his breath. "It looks like he could use some help getting up."

Cas says, "Leave him alone," but something invisible and rough grips Dean's arm and yanks him to his knees.

He sways a little once it's gone; the room is swimming in time with the throbbing in his head. He rubs his hand over his face and takes a quick look around. The ring of holy oil is just inside the door. Crowley and Metatron are sliming up the complementary chairs in the center of the room. Bela is sitting on the edge of the bed, her coat in her lap and her legs crossed at the ankle. She glances up long enough to catch Dean's eye and shake her head a fraction.

Dean isn't surprised. She's in so deep that she's got to play along with whoever's got the upper hand. Siding with the losers isn't going to get her out of her deal. She smooths her dress over her knees and taps her fingernails on the nightstand. The clock beside her wrist reads one twenty-one; Dean was napping for about half an hour. He figures Rowena's spell should be coming through any minute. He just needs to buy some time.

He glances at Cas. The firelight is flickering across his face, casting shadows that hone his features into strong, sharp lines. He looks — he looks like an angel. Like a statue in a cemetery. A painting in a church. _He's bigger than you. When the time comes, you have to let him go_. A hollow ache spreads through Dean's chest. He — fuck.

"The Staff ain't here," he says finally. It's not great as openers go, but quantity is on the menu right now, not quality.

"We know _that_ ," Metatron says, huffing. "We took the liberty of searching this dump while you were out."

"Okay." Dean's angel blade is on the floor _again_ — if he survives this, he's making a sheath for the fucking thing — but the demon shank is still at his hip. He rolls his shoulders slightly, just enough to feel his forty-five shift against the small of his back. Missouri hadn't been wrong about them being sure of themselves. "Then what's with the intervention?"

"We want to know where you've hidden it," Metatron says.

"I don't —"

"Spare us the river in Egypt routine," Crowley snaps. His chair creaks as he leans forward and rests his hands on his knees. "Playtime is over, Winchester. Give us the Staff, or I'll start peeling your skin off in strips."

"You don't wanna do that," Dean says, shaking his head. "I'm a bleeder. You'll just ruin your fancy suit."

Crowley shrugs. "I'll admit, I'm not a fan of getting my own hands dirty. But threatening you is the only way to make your other half behave."

"If you hurt him, I won't tell you anything," Cas says.

"We're not talking about hurting. We're talking about killing." Metatron makes a sad noise in the back of his throat. "Human lives. They're so... fleeting." He flutters his fingers. "So fragile."

"Killing me won't do you any good," Dean says. He cocks his head at Cas. "He doesn't know where it is."

"Oh." Metatron sits up and brushes crumbs off his ugly sweater. "That changes things."

Cas doubles over with a scream. Blood starts pouring from his nose and mouth. Dean reaches for him, but his hand slams into an invisible wall. Something wraps around his throat again, squeezing just enough to make him suck in a breath on reflex. Gray spots fuzz at the corners of his eyes.

Metatron gives Dean an expectant look. "You might want to make a decision. Angels heal slower inside a ring. Considerably slower."

"All right, all right. Fix him up and I'll tell you where it is."

"Dean," Cas says thickly. His face is whiter than a sheet. "Dean, don't."

"Fix him, damn it."

The waterfall of blood stops. Cas grates out a noise. He straightens slowly, like everything inside him still hurts. His face is still too white. His hand shakes as he wipes his mouth.

Something like a thumb strokes up the length of Dean's windpipe. Crowley smiles when Dean shudders. Then he asks, "Where?"

"You can't get to it." That earns Dean's throat another squeeze. He wheezes a few times before continuing, "It — it's in a curse box. A human's gotta open it."

"Sounds convenient," Crowley says. An edge of sulfur cuts through the holy oil fogging the room. "Too convenient. You can't be stupid enough to think we'd let you walk out of here."

"I'll fly him there," Metatron offers.

Crowley snorts out a noise. "Absolutely not. Our deal was half and half. If you go alone, you just might decide to flap off with the whole thing."

Metatron spreads his hands. "You can't blame me for trying."

"You —"

"Look," Dean says, getting to his feet. "I got a guy who can bring it to us. Get your stink off me and I'll call him."

Metatron and Crowley exchange a glance. After a short, tight silence, Crowley gives a slight nod. The invisible thumb traces Dean's windpipe once more for good measure. Then the pressure around his throat ripples and fades away.

As soon as it's gone, Metatron gestures at Dean and says, "Go ahead. Call your friend."

"Dean," Cas says quietly.

"Sorry." _Trust me. You gotta trust me._ "We don't really have a choice."

"You shouldn't be so surprised, Castiel." Metatron heaves out a long sigh. "Humans are greedy. Covetous. Letting the Staff fall into our hands means he doesn't have to give you up."

Dean shakes his head as he dials Kevin's number. "Buddy, you got me all wrong."

Kevin picks up almost immediately. Before Dean can say anything, he asks, "Dean, are you okay?"

"I'm fucking peachy," Dean grumbles. His throat aches. "I need you to do something for me. Come down to my room. Knock three times so I know it's you."

"Yeah, okay," Kevin says — slowly, like he thinks Dean's lost his mind. "I'll be right down."

"And bring a pen and paper. You — in case I gotta draw you a map."

After he hangs up, Dean looks at Cas. The fire has started to dim, but red-gold light is still dancing across Cas' face. Dean just stares at him — at the line of his jaw, the slope of his cheek, the curve of his mouth. His gut twists. He doesn't know what he's going to do when Cas is gone.

Kevin knocks on the door: _crack-crack-crack_. It's so sudden and gunshot-sharp that Dean jumps a little. He rubs his face and tells himself to get his shit together. Then he frowns at the fire. It's low enough now that it barely reaches his shins. As he hop-steps over it, something skates across the back of his neck.

"Don't try to leave," Crowley warns. "If you stick anything bigger than your nose outside, I'll snap you in half."

Dean opens the door about a foot. He wedges himself in the doorway so Kevin can't see in and Metatron and Crowley can't see out. He leans in close to Kevin's ear and whispers, "There's a pawn ticket in your glove compartment."

"In my —"

"Shut up and listen. Take the ticket to Benny's place and cash it in. If he gives you any trouble, say _pirates._ "

Kevin blinks at him. " _Pirates_?"

"Yeah," Dean says. Benny used to be one; he'd cruised the Gulf in the dead of night, waiting for rich people to fall asleep so he could climb on their yachts and rob them blind. He went straight after a Coast Guard raid sank his bowrider and nearly drowned his wife. "He's gonna give you that... package from earlier. Bring it here."

"Okay."

Dean catches his eye and winks. "You need a map?"

"Oh, um. Yeah." Kevin hands him a motel pad and pen. "That'd be great."

"Okay." Dean uncaps the pen with his teeth. He scrawls out a note that says, "Call Sam on your way back. Bring Jody and the demon cuffs. No sirens. Just bust in." He shoves it at Kevin and mutters, "Hurry." Then he slams the door in Kevin's face.

When Dean turns around, Metatron smiles at him. He slow-claps a few times and says, "That was a truly mediocre piece of street theater. I might've enjoyed it more if I hadn't heard every word."

Dean makes himself breathe. "What?"

"I'm very interested in the pawn shop. You —"

Metatron cuts off with a sharp, strangled noise. Beside him, Crowley shifts in his chair. Dean's almost afraid to hope at this point, but he looks over at Cas. After a quick pause, Cas nods. His hands clench at his sides. An uncomfortable frown tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Dean whips his forty-five out of his jeans and smiles. "You fellas doing okay?"

"Clever," Crowley spits. A vein is throbbing in his temple. "Very clever."

"I know," Dean says. He smiles wider. "Guess I'm not as stupid as you thought."

Cas takes a hesitant step over what's left of the fire. The second he's on the other side, he grabs Metatron by the collar and punches him in the face. "You set us up!" There's a snarl in his voice, dangerous and dark. He punches Metatron again. And again. "That fire killed Dean's father. Because of you, I was banished from Heaven."

Crowley's chair creaks. Dean snaps, "Sit your ass down," and levels the gun at his head. He keeps it trained there as he walks over and touches Cas' arm. "Cas, c'mon."

"No, Dean." There's a glint in Cas' eyes that has nothing to do with his grace. "He cost both of us too much."

"I know," Dean says. He slides his hand up Cas' shoulder and brushes his fingers through Cas' hair. "I get it. But you gotta chill for a minute."

Cas leans into Dean's hand a little. "You — fine." He looks dispassionately at the blood on his knuckles before cutting Metatron a glare. "For a minute."

Dean starts to say, "Okay," but he gets interrupted by a knock at the door. Keeping Crowley in his sights, he backs away from Cas and barks, "Come in."

After a pause, Rowena slips inside in a dark blue dress and a cloud of red hair. Her lilac perfume just agitates the sulfur-and-oil stench in the room. Crowley grumbles out a noise and tugs on his tie. The look on his face makes Dean want to roll on the floor and laugh until he cries.

"Mother," Crowley says cooly.

Rowena narrows her eyes. "Fergus."

Dean lets them stare at each other for a minute. Then he asks Rowena, "You need help with his leash?"

"No. It came off easy as anything as soon as the spell was cast." She draws her hair over one shoulder and tips her head to the side. "Will you be killing him now?"

"No, sorry. I need him for another fifteen or twenty minutes."

"Pity," Rowena says, sighing. She gives Dean a hex bag the color of a robin's egg. "Crush this three times in your left hand to end the spell." She glances at Crowley one more time. Then she pats Dean's shoulder and says, "It's been a pleasure, Winchester. I do hope I never see you again."

Dean snorts. "Yeah. Same to you."

Once she's gone, Metatron says, "Interesting spell." His lip is swollen, and dark bruises are spreading under his eyes. "I assume it only holds inside this room."

"Something like that, yeah."

"And if I went outside...?"

Dean hefts his gun slightly. "This is good for seven shots. If that doesn't slow you down, I got about four knives on me." He jerks his head toward the door. "Go ahead and try it."

Metatron holds up his hands. "I was just curious."

"What's your plan?" Sweat is beading on Crowley's forehead and cheeks. He's probably trying and failing to smoke out. "We die like rats in a trap? Feathers takes the Staff and flies home to Daddy?"

That _is_ the plan, more or less. But Dean needs a little more time. He grits his teeth so his game-face doesn't slip and points the gun at Cas. "I told you guys. You got me all wrong."

"Dean," Cas says softly. It feels like a knife between the ribs.

"Well, well." Metatron barks out a laugh. "This is an unexpected plot twist. I —" he sighs and wags a finger at Dean "— I really believed you were doing this for love."

Dean puts a lazy shrug in his shoulder. "He's a sweet ride, but I ain't exactly the marrying type. 'Sides, it's not like he was planning on sticking around."

Cas breathes out a noise that Dean feels in the center of his chest.

"I suppose you want money," Crowley says.

"Sounds good." Dean's gut is a giant, furious knot. He grits his teeth again so he can look at Cas without puking. "What've you got?"

"Dean." It hurts twice as much this time. "You know I don't have money."

Dean sighs like he's disappointed. "Sorry, Angelcakes. That means they get the floor." He turns back to Metatron and Crowley. "What about you?"

"I," Crowley starts, but Metatron clears his throat. " _We_ have fifty grand."

"Get it."

Metatron glances over his shoulder. "Bela, would you be so kind?"

Bela sets her coat on the bed. The headboard thunks against the wall as she stands. She walks around to the other side, crouches down, and reaches underneath. A moment later, she comes back with a suitcase. It's a stainless steel job, the kind of thing double agents use to move government secrets. She brings it over to him. Opens it just long enough to give him a glimpse of the cash.

"Put it by the door."

"What now?" Metatron asks. His nose is probably broken; the bruises around his eyes are livid and purple.

"As soon as the Staff gets here, I'm gone."

"What about Castiel?"

Dean forces out another shrug. "I figure he ain't my problem anymore. Kill him, let him go — that's between you guys."

"Why don't _you_ kill him?" Crowley asks.

"I could," Dean says slowly. His heart is hammering in his throat. "But I already got three murders hanging over my head. I don't need one more."

They wait. And they wait. And they wait. A semi blares its horn up on the turnpike. A door slams a couple rooms down. Dean sighs and backs himself against the wall. His collar scratches the tired wood paneling. He doesn't look at Cas. He can't. Before they came in he asked Cas to trust him, but — Christ. He doesn't know.

Another semi blares its horn. The TV turns on in number four; the shrill buzz of a laugh-track slices through the paper-thin walls. Metatron hunches over in his chair. He winces as he prods at his lip and nose. The plumbing rattles behind the walls — someone running a shower. Crowley huffs out a low, irritated noise. A long gust of wind shrieks against the window.

Finally: _crack-crack-crack_. Dean side-steps the door so he can open it without showing Metatron and Crowley his back.

"Any trouble?" he asks.

"No." Kevin looks windswept and damp. He hands Dean the bundle and asks, "You need anything else?"

Dean nudges the suitcase with his boot. "Take this back to your room. Don't open the door for anyone but me."

"Yeah. Okay."

"Hey." Dean gives Kevin an eyebrow. "Thanks, brother."

Kevin mouths, "Soon." Then he says, "Yeah, bye."

Metatron starts to laugh before the door is even closed. He laughs hard enough that ends up slumped over and wheezing. Whining, "Ow, ow," because it hurts his broken nose. It's an obnoxious sound — high-pitched and raspy. His face flushes bright red underneath his bruises. His shoulders shake so much that he nearly falls out of his chair.

Eventually, he blows out a long breath and blots his wet eyes with his sleeve. Then he says, "You think _that_ is the Staff?"

Dean spins his gun and slams its butt against Crowley's temple. As Crowley slithers to the floor, Dean says, "No. I think _that_ is a decoy. I think you planted it on Ellsworth's rig to lure Cas out. This was all just another set-up."

"You _are_ clever," Metatron says. His voice is a little tight; losing his back-up must be making him nervous. "Very clever."

"Where is it?" Dean demands. "Pontiac? Is it still in Pontiac?"

Metatron barely hesitates before saying, "No. Of course not."

It's such an obvious lie that Dean nearly slaps him on principle. Instead, he tells Cas, "You can kill him now."

Cas closes his eyes. He murmurs something under his breath — something too soft for Dean to hear. Then he slides his blade out of his sleeve and says, "I have a better idea."

He fists a hand in Metatron's hair and yanks, exposing Metatron's throat. He makes a quick, shallow cut right across the center. Metatron screams like he's dying, but the wound doesn't bleed. Bright wisps of blue-white light start wisping out of it. Cas catches it in a glass vial and slips it in the pocket of his trenchcoat.

Dean just stares. "Was that —?"

"His grace, yes. He's human, now." Cas tucks his blade back into his sleeve. "What about Crowley?"

Before Dean can answer him, the door splinters open. Jody charges through and shouts, "Put your hands on your head!"

 

+

 

The room is a mess — enough of a mess that Dean's glad he checked in under a fake name. Blood is smeared on Metatron's chair and splattered around his feet. The stain made by Cas bleeding out has soaked into the carpet and dried a rusty, reddish-black. The holy fire has finally died, but it's left a sooty circle just inside the door. A sigil is carved into the wood paneling near the bathroom — something protective, maybe. Or something to block a tracking spell. Cas would probably know what it is, but Dean can't bring himself to look at him yet.

Instead, he asks Sam, "What the hell took you guys so long?"

Wincing, Sam says, "Sorry." Then he bends down to look at Crowley. Crowley's starting to come around; he groans under his breath and kicks like a dog stuck in a bad dream. Sam grabs him under the arms and hauls him back into his chair. "I had to pick up Jody."

Jody rolls her eyes. "Don't put this on me, Winchester. You're the one who wouldn't listen when I told you not to take the turnpike."

Crowley sways a little. Sam steadies him by the shoulder and says, "I didn't know there was going to be an accident."

"In this weather?" Jody asks, snorting. "Of course there was going to be an accident." She taps her pen on her field notebook and gives Metatron a narrow look. "So, this guy used to be an angel, but now he's human?"

"Yes, he's human," Cas says.

"Okay," Jody says dubiously. She taps her field notebook a few more times. "What are we doing with him?"

After a pause, Cas says, "I understand you've been looking for the man who killed Alastair and Ellsworth."

Dean just stares at him. He'd been wondering why Cas de-graced Metatron instead of killing him. Figured maybe he was working some kind of "fate worse than death" angle. But this — Christ. This is perfect. It puts Metatron on ice pretty much permanently. It gets Dean off the hook and saves Cas from scrambling a bunch of brains like an omelet.

"Hey," Metatron whines. It's the first thing he's said since Cas clipped his wings. "That's not fair."

Cas hefts his blade slightly. "It's more than fair, given everything you've done. You could say I'm... letting you off easy."

"Is that so?" Metatron's bruises are gone — Cas must've healed him while Dean was helping Sam cuff Crowley — but his beard is matted with dried blood. So is the collar of his sweater. "What makes you think I'll play along?"

"Because if I kill you now, you'll die as a human." Cas pulls the grace vial from his pocket and holds it an inch from Metatron's nose. "Cooperate, and I'll return this to you after you've served your sentence. Then when I kill you, you'll die as an angel."

Metatron opens his mouth. Closes it. Then he huffs out another pained noise and says, "Fine." The color has drained from his face; he looks like he might puke. "You — fine."

"Okay, pal," Jody says, reaching for her cuffs. "Stand up and put your hands behind your back."

"What d'you think, Sammy?" Dean cocks his head to this side. "I figure Ellsworth owed him money. Something to do with drugs, maybe."

Sam's mouth twitches. "Drugs are good. What about Alastair? Wrong place, wrong time?"

"Yep." Dean shakes his head and sighs. "Unlucky bastard. He saw it go down, and Enoch here didn't want any witnesses."

"Works for me," Jody says. Crowley groans and shifts in his chair; she shoots him an uneasy glance before grabbing Metatron's arm. "I'll take his statement in the car. That'll give you guys some time to, um. To —" she waves her hand "— whatever."

"Bye-bye," Dean tells Metatron. He winks. "See you in twenty-five to life."

Metatron gives Dean the finger, but it loses something because his hands are cuffed and balanced on his ass. Jody grabbing his collar and frog-marching him across the room doesn't help, either. The door opens with a creak. A wave of white noise laps inside as they walk out — the steady drum of the rain mixed with the hum and whir of US 59.

Once they're gone, Sam gestures at Crowley and asks, "How hard did you hit him?"

Dean shrugs. "It was just a love-tap. I don't know why he's still —"

"He's awake," Cas cuts in. His voice is so toneless and dull that Dean wants to kick himself in the ass about five hundred times. "He's been awake for close to ten minutes." He knuckles the side of Crowley's neck, right below the ear. When Crowley just mumbles groggily, he does it again. This time, there's an electric crackle and a quick spark of light.

Crowley jerks away with a hiss. "All right, all right. I'm awake." He lifts his arms and jangles the demon cuffs. "Are these really necessary?"

"Don't ask stupid questions." Cas' hand flexes like he wants to try that cattleprod move again. Then he looks at Dean — _fuck, fuck_ — and asks, "What are you planning to do with him?"

Crowley snorts. "Besides kill me, you mean?"

"Yeah, besides kill you," Dean says. He nudges Sam's side. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Take him to Bobby's? Work him over 'til he spills the details on his crossroads operation, then slit his throat?"

Dean claps Sam's shoulder. "Would you look at that? My brother's a mind-reader." He pulls the demon shank and jabs it close to Crowley's face. "I know killing you'll junk your deals, but Bela's kinda on the clock. You can go ahead and do hers now."

"Sorry." A nasty smile twists Crowley's mouth. "I don't hold Bela's contract."

"You snake," Bela spits. Heat rises in her cheeks; she looks ready to rip his head off with her bare hands. "You said you hold all the contracts."

"I hold the contracts made since I gained control of the crossroads." Crowley straightens his tie, making the demon cuffs jingle and clank. "There was a queen before me. She holds the contracts made during her tenure."

"He could be lying." Dean _hopes_ he's lying. Bela's only got six days left; that doesn't give them a lot of time to start looking somewhere else. He asks Cas, "Is there a way to check? A spell, or a —"

"Yes," Cas says. He doesn't sound happy about it. "If I touch her soul, I can read the claim on it. But it —" he frowns at Bela "— it won't be pleasant."

"Whatever," Bela says, sighing. "Just get it over with."

Cas walks over to the bed and crouches in front of her. After hesitating for a second, he carefully touches the center of her chest. Light flares under his palm, bright enough that Bela winces and closes her eyes. There's a short, tense pause. Then Cas' hand slips inside her to the wrist. She screams like a police siren, long and high and horrible. Tears well in her eyes. She clutches at the bedspread until her knuckles burn white.

A few moments later, Cas pulls away and stands. Shaking his head, he says. "Crowley's telling the truth."

"Told you," Crowley mutters.

"Shut up," Dean says, whipping the demon shank past Crowley's cheek. Crowley yelps; his cuffs rattle like something out of a horror movie. Dean turns to Cas and asks, "Did you get a name?"

Cas nods. "Yes."

"Okay," Dean says slowly. "Okay. If we got a name, we can summon the sonofabitch. We can —"

"Forget it, Winchester." Bela snatches her coat off the bed and stands. Her eyes are red and wet. Her legs wobble slightly as she stalks toward the door. "I'll just handle it myself. I've always had to handle everything myself. No reason this should be any different."

"Hey," Dean starts, but she just slams the door in his face. "Damn it, Bela."

"Dean," Cas says. He reaches for Dean's arm but stops short of touching. Dean wants to kiss him. Would, if he didn't think he'd get punched in the face. "We don't need her to work a summons. Not if we have the demon's name."

"I know, I know. I just — fuck." Dean sighs and scrubs at his hair. Then he hands Sam the demon shank and jerks his head toward the door. "Get this jackass outta here. I'm tired of smelling him."

"Yeah, come on," Sam says, yanking Crowley up by his collar. He crowds in close to Crowley's back and digs the demon shank into his side. "Nice and easy, unless you want to die in the parking lot."

"Your concern for my dignity is touching," Crowley says flatly. After a pause, he sighs. "I'll behave. If my choices are bad or worse, I'd prefer some hunter's grotty basement to this toilet of a motel."

With that, he lets Sam herd him outside. A handful of wind slips past them before Sam closes the door, but the chill just brightens the sulfur-and-oil fug hanging in the air. Once they're gone, Cas grabs Crowley's chair and drags it over to the table. After waving away the blood, he does the same with Metatron's. Then he stands there for a second. He sighs quietly and taps his fingers on the sticky Formica.

Dean just watches him. He can barely breathe around the sick feeling rising in his throat — guilt jumbled with a million dumb, inadequate apologies. He opens his mouth around, "I'm sorry," and "I didn't mean it," and "I was just playing for time, I needed more time." But nothing comes out. His chest aches. His tongue feels too big for his mouth.

Cas sighs again and toward him. Looks at him. His face is tight and tense and hurt. His jaw works like he's about to say something, but then he shivers and whips his head around like a deer caught in the crosshairs. A strange, prickly pressure fills the room. Cas glances at the ceiling. Then he walks over to the sigil on the wall. He stabs his blade into the wood paneling and scores a blazing line through the center of the markings.

A beat passes. And another. Then the air rips open for an angel in a neat gray suit. She comes in like a hurricane; the windows rattle, and the lights flicker. One of the chairs crashes to the floor and skids toward the bathroom.

Dean fumbles for his blade, but Cas says, "Dean, no," and holds out his hand. "Hannah's a friend."

"Castiel," she says urgently. She has brown hair and wide, blue eyes. She must've just left a fight because a half-healed cut is curving across her cheek. "I heard your prayer. What you said seemed impossible, but I — you were correct."

The tension around Cas' mouth eases slightly. "Did you find it?"

Nodding, Hannah reaches into her jacket and pulls out a tired-looking piece of wood. It's — Christ. It's the Staff. Dean doesn't know what he expected, but this thing doesn't look like much. It's about two feet long and a little thicker than a broom handle. It's bent at one end, more of a kink than a real curve.

"It was heavily warded," Hannah explains. She has another faint cut underneath her jaw. "Numerous spells, all of them deadly. And Jofiel was guarding it. He —"

"Jofiel?" Cas asks sharply. "But he's been missing since —" He cuts off with a huff. "Of course. He's been missing nearly as long as the Staff. Is he dead?"

"Castiel, I had no choice." She sounds stricken. "He was rabid. Whoever gave him this task broke his mind utterly."

"Metatron. It was Metatron."

"Metatron? No. That's impossible. He — no."

Cas reaches for her. "I can show you."

After a brief hesitation, Hannah takes Cas' hand. Light flickers between their palms, sudden and bright. It starts out pure white, but it turns an unsettling pinkish-orange once it starts coursing up Hannah's arm. A thread of ozone winds through the air. Hannah looks shocked, then confused, then horrified, then sad. She glances at Dean and pulls away with a gasp.

"Oh. Oh, Castiel. You've been away from Heaven too long." She offers him the Staff. "Take this. Let me bring you home."

Dean makes himself breathe. His hands are shaking. He — fuck. This is it. This is really it.

_Goodbye, Cas. You, uh. You take care of yourself._

Cas looks at the Staff for a long moment — long enough that Dean's skin starts to crawl. Anticipation slithers around in his gut. He almost tells Cas to hurry up. Get it over with. Just go. Dean's half off the deep end already; dragging this out is just going to send him straight into a nosedive.

Finally, Cas says, "Our superiors will be glad to have the Staff returned. You will be highly honored."

"Castiel," Hannah murmurs. Confusion twists her mouth. "I — I don't understand."

"I'm staying here."

"What?" Dean blurts. He just blinks at Cas for a second — at his crooked tie and his bird's nest hair and his dumb, perfect face. "No way. You — no."

"Are you certain?" Hannah presses. She spares Dean another glance, pursing her lips in a way that says she finds him lacking in every area. "He's human. Their passions are... fleeting. Fleeting and strange."

"Often, but not always," Cas says. He smiles softly. "It was good to see you, Hannah."

Hannah nods. She says, "Goodbye, Castiel," and zaps out with a burst of wind that knocks over the empty beer bottles on the table.

Dean watches them roll off and clunk to the floor. His pulse is gunning for some kind of speed record. He has to clear his throat a couple of times before his voice is willing to work. "Cas, you — you, um. Is this — you sure about this?"

"Yes," Cas says simply. He frowns a little, like he doesn't understand why Dean is asking. "I've never loved or wanted anything like I love and want you."

That curls into Dean's chest. Tries to put down roots and bloom into something warm and soft. Still, Dean asks, "What about Heaven?" Because — Christ. Dean is an alcoholic PI with a car full of guns and a crappy relationship history. And _Cas is an angel_. "I mean, you've been trying to get back upstairs for eight years."

Cas just shrugs that away. He takes Dean's hand, stroking Dean's knuckles with his thumb. "I'll miss it. But I wouldn't be happy there. Not without you."

"Last night," Dean says slowly. "Last night, you were still talking about leaving."

"I couldn't let myself hope. Not when the Staff was still missing. Not with Crowley and Metatron hunting us. But I —" Cas pauses. An uncertain look clouds his face. "You're acting like you don't want this."

Dean closes his eyes for a second. He sees Cassie telling him it isn't working out. Lisa asking him to pack up his shit. Robin screaming at him in the Lawrence High School quad because he ditched prom to work a PI gig with his dad. That guy up at Stanford — after nearly twenty years, Dean doesn't remember his name. Just his shitty, school-housing apartment, and how they'd shacked up for the two weeks Dean spent trying to convince Sam to come home. How he'd bolted the minute a bloodless body turned up an hour north in Sausalito.

"I do want this. I want you. I just — I, uh." Dean's face is on fire. He rubs his hand over it and blows out a breath. "I don't know how to do this."

"Neither do I," Cas says. He strokes his thumb over Dean's knuckles again. "We — we can learn how together."

"Okay," Dean decides. He tugs Cas closer and kisses his jaw, his throat. The motel room is still a mess, but Dean figures it can wait until morning. "Let's go home."

 

+

 

They land in Dean's bed. Naked.

"Nice move," Dean says, laughing. He nudges Cas onto his back and swings his leg over Cas' hip.

Cas smiles up at him. "I thought you might appreciate it."

Dean huffs out another laugh. Then he sits up on his knees and looks — at the line of Cas' neck, the curve of his shoulders, the dark hair dusting the center of his chest. He skims a hand across Cas' collarbone. Tweaks Cas' nipples until they peak between his fingers, until Cas shifts under him and breathes out a noise. Cas' dick hardens against Dean's ass, so Dean edges back and rubs against it. Cas tips his head back, making his hair scratch against the pillow. His throat bobs around a soft moan.

"Christ, you're perfect," Dean says quietly. "You know that, right?"

The bed creaks as Cas shifts again. "Dean."

Dean's guilt comes creeping back, nagging like a phantom itch between his shoulder blades. "All that shit I said earlier... you gotta know I wasn't — I didn't —"

"Dean," Cas says again. He slides his hands up Dean's thighs and holds them at Dean's hips. "I know you didn't mean it. It was part of your plan." He gives Dean's hips a squeeze. "I never doubted you."

"Yeah. But I — I, um." Dean had needed more time. He'd needed to keep Metatron talking until he got sloppy and gave up the Staff's location. Pretending to flip on Cas had been the obvious way to go. Dean just wishes it had been so — _so_. "Couldn't've been easy to hear."

"It wasn't," Cas admits. "But it was more difficult to feel your distress."

"You — still? Even with Gilda's spell going?"

"It was very faint." Cas touches Dean's scar, tracing the shape of it with the tips of his fingers. A slow shiver curls around Dean's spine. "You were upset. Disgusted with yourself. At one point you felt physically ill."

Dean gasps out, "Yeah," and shivers again. "Yeah, I did."

Cas slides his other hand up Dean's back. "Dean, kiss me."

Dean leans in, bracing his elbows on either side of Cas' head. He brushes their mouths together a few times, slow and soft. He catches Cas' lower lip between his teeth and tugs slightly. Cas moans into it, low and throaty and gorgeous. He works his hand into Dean's hair and pulls just enough to make Dean's skin prickle with heat. Dean's dick is trapped against Cas' belly, so Dean rubs it there, rolling his hips as he pushes his tongue into Cas' mouth, as he drags a wet kiss down the line of Cas' jaw, as he bites a mark into the hollow of Cas' throat.

Cas pulls Dean closer. He noses at the slope of Dean's cheek and the shell of his ear, and he nips his way between the hinge of Dean's jaw and the corner of his mouth. When he kisses Dean again, it's filthy and wet; he murmurs a noise against Dean's lips, then cradles the back of Dean's neck and sucks Dean's tongue into his mouth. He arches up a little and rubs himself against Dean's ass. He teases Dean's scar again — skimming his thumb over it, then his fingers, then his palm. It sparks a wave of arousal that makes Dean shake; he hides his face in the curve of Cas' neck and whines against Cas' skin.

Once he can breathe again, Dean mumbles, "Fuck, fuck," and pushes himself up. He reaches for the nightstand and digs around in the drawer until he finds his bottle of lube. Just in case, he grabs a condom, too.

The first finger goes in easy. Dean plants his knees on the bed and holds one hand at Cas' hip. He rides the other with slow rolls of his hips. Everything is slick with lube and sweat, and Cas' dick keeps slipping up into Dean's cleft, bumping hard and hot against Dean's knuckles. The second finger is a stretch — enough that a groan catches in the back of Dean's throat — but it just digs at the heat pooling in Dean's gut. Cas is watching him with wide, dark eyes. He rakes his nails up Dean's thighs. Then he wraps a hand around Dean's dick and strokes, smiling when Dean jerks and fucks into it with a moan.

"You should see yourself," Cas says, his voice low and soft. "You're beautiful."

Dean shakes his head slightly; he knows he's red-faced and slack-mouthed and sweaty. A blotchy flush is spreading down the center of his chest. But Cas just keeps staring at him. He thumbs Dean's slit, smearing precome around the head of Dean's dick as he slides his other hand down to Dean's ass. He paints a finger through the lube slicked behind Dean's balls, then brushes it around Dean's rim. Nudges it alongside Dean's fingers — in, in, in.

It's too much. Too good. Dean chokes out, "Cas," and grinds down onto it. His free hand slips off Cas' hip and fists in the sheets.

Cas touches him slowly at first, inching in and out like he's curious. Pushing in and pausing like he just wants to know how Dean feels inside. His eyes are nearly black, and his face is fever-bright. The next time Dean fucks down, Cas twists his wrist a little. He works his finger between Dean's until all three are knotted together. Then he follows Dean's pace — faster and rougher and deeper. Thrusting in and dragging out until Dean is shuddering and clenching around them.

"Okay." Dean gropes for the condom until he finds it hiding in a fold of the sheet. Holding up up, he says, "Okay. How d'you wanna do this?"

Cas squeezes Dean's hip. "I can't catch or transmit disease, and I healed you this morning. It's not necessary — not unless you prefer it."

Dean doesn't know; he's never done it without one. But thinking about it — feeling every inch of Cas inside him, feeling Cas _come_ — has him fumbling with the lube. He squirts too much on his hand, so much that it drips off his fingers when he reaches down to slick Cas' dick. It takes him a second to get lined up; his thighs ache and his knees keep slipping in the sheets. The head of Cas' dick tags against his hole — once, twice. Then it nudges in. And then Cas is pushing in, arching up slightly as Dean sinks down. The bed is squeaking, and Dean's toes are curling, and Cas is filling Dean up.

"Jesus," Dean hisses. He sucks in a breath. And another. Underneath him, Cas is drawn tighter than a bow-string; he's white-knuckling the sheets like he's desperate to move.

Dean strokes himself a few times, teasing his fingers through the new rush of precome beading at the tip of his dick. Then he rolls his hips, easy and slow. A moan rips out of Cas' throat; he tips his head back against the pillow and pants out Dean's name. So Dean does it again. And again and again and again. He leans down, sliding his hands up Cas' chest so he can thumb Cas' nipples. He rocks down and pulls up. Shifts his hips until Cas' dick is skimming over his prostate.

Cas moans again. He wrings his hands at Dean's hips before running one up Dean's side. He pulls Dean down for a kiss that's sloppy and needy and wet. He starts to thrust, finding a rhythm that has him spearing up and in as Dean sinks down. Dean digs his nails into Cas' shoulders and groans out a noise. It's incredible, all of it — the silver glint behind Cas' eyes, the bare heat of Cas' dick, the slow sex-ache burning in Dean's thighs.

Cas draws Dean into another kiss. He wraps his hand around Dean's dick, stroking it as he mouths at Dean's jaw and throat. He bites a mark over Dean's collarbone and another at the curve of Dean's neck. Dean hides a whine in Cas' hair; he's so close to coming he can feel it in the soles of his feet. He ends up squirming between Cas' dick and Cas' hand, unsure of what he wants more — the rough drag of Cas' palm or the deep spark of pleasure from Cas sliding against his prostate.

It builds and builds until he's hanging by a thread. But then on his next thrust, Cas brushes his hand over Dean's scar. Everything under Dean's skin lights up like a fireworks display. He grits out, "Cheater," and comes, his dick pulsing in Cas' fist and his breath shuddering in his throat. Cas kisses his blazing-hot cheek and the sweat-damp hair at his temple. Then he grips Dean by the hips, digging his fingers into Dean's skin as he fucks up and finishes himself off. The lights flicker, and the headboard smacks against the wall. And then Cas is coming. Dean can feel it — Jesus Christ, he can feel it — hot and messy and thick.

Dean slumps against Cas' chest. Presses his face to Cas' neck and breathes Cas in. Cas smells like he always does — ozone and fresh-cut grass — but now it's threaded with clean sweat and off-brand laundry detergent. Rain is pounding against the window. The air in the room is sex-humid, almost solid enough to chew. Cas shifts under Dean and pulls out, leaving Dean feeling slippery-wet and open. When he grumbles about it, Cas kisses the shell of his ear and strokes a hand up and down his back.

"You should sleep," he says quietly.

Dean mumbles, "Yeah," and closes his eyes. "You gonna clean us up?"

"Yes," Cas says, nudging at his shoulder.

Dean starts to sit up, but Cas' dick bumps the inside of his thigh, come-sticky and already hard again. He reaches down and brushes his fingers over it. Skates his palm across the head. Cas bites back a noise that makes Dean smile.

"You ready to go again?"

"Dean."

"I ain't complaining." Dean rolls them, letting Cas' weight pin him to the bed. He digs his heel into Cas' ass and says, "C'mon. Fuck me."

"Dean," Cas says again. His voice is low and dark. He hesitates for a second, but then lines himself up and slides back home.

It's different this time — sharper, more of a razor's edge. The angle isn't perfect; Cas misses Dean's prostate more than he hits it. But when he does hit it — fuck. When he does hit it, Dean feels like he's drowning. Like he's crawling out of his skin. Jolts of too-bright pleasure snap through him, quicker and hotter than lightning. He shivers when they strike. He whines in the back of his throat. He grits out Cas' name and claws desperately at the sheets.

"Fuck," Dean hisses. It's all he's got. "Fuck, fuck."

Cas hums under his breath and thumbs the skin at Dean's hips. "Is it good?"

"Yeah." Dean's never gone for round two so soon after round one; he had no idea it would be like _this_. It's too much — way, way too much — but it's also good. Impossibly, indescribably good. "Yeah. I — _Cas_."

Cas hums again and thrusts in hard. Heat is burning underneath his jaw, and his hair is hanging in his eyes. He leans in and presses a kiss to the hollow of Dean's throat. Then he noses at Dean's jaw and asks, "Do you want to come again?"

"I — fuck. Don't think I can."

"Do you want to?"

Dean tries to say, "Yes," but he's so strung-out that it curls into a moan. He buries it in the pillow and nods. The room is still for a moment — all Dean can hear is the punched-out cadence of his own breathing and slick-wet sound of Cas fucking through his own come. Then Cas slides his hand down between Dean's legs and palms Dean's dick. A quick pulse of grace throbs through him, and then his dick his aching and filling and — fuck. Fuck. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to get some air into his lungs. When he opens them again, Cas is looking down, watching as Dean's dick slips in and out of his fist.

Cas' hips start to stutter. The lights flicker again. Cas comes with a choked-off moan and his free hand digging a bruise into Dean's hip. He strokes Dean's dick — once, twice, three times. He teases his thumb over the head, and Dean shivers. Comes with a weak, grateful noise that's almost a sob.

 

+

 

Dean wakes up to his phone ringing. Grunting, he rolls away from Cas and grabs it off the nightstand. The call is from an unknown number with a New York area code. Dean's just sleep-drunk enough that he answers it anyway.

"Yeah?"

"Dean," Bela says urgently. "Dean, I need your help."

"Bela." Dean sits up and rubs at his gritty eyes. The clock says it's four twenty-seven; he was only out a couple of hours. "Don't worry about it. Me and Cas are gonna fix you up. You —"

"No, not that," she cuts in. After a pause, she sighs in his ear. "I'm in a spot of more immediate trouble."

Dean swings his legs over the side of the bed. Grunting again, he rescues his jeans off the floor and gives them a shake. "What kind of trouble?"

"The police kind." Her voice is hollow and dull, like she's calling from somewhere small and closed-in — an elevator, or a narrow hallway. "Apparently, renting a car under a false name amounts to theft out here in the sticks."

Dean says, "Uh-huh," and reaches for a t-shirt. That's some "letter of the law" kind of shit — too hardass for most of the cops in town. Even if she got prissy with them, they'd just tag her with misdemeanor identity fraud and call it a day. "What d'you need? Bail?"

Another pause. "Yes, bail. I gave you everything but my shirt back at the motel."

"How much?"

"Fifteen thousand."

That's too much; the most recent bail schedule has GTA set at ten. "Fifteen? You sure?"

"Yes." She sighs again. It's an impatient sound, like she thinks Dean is just being tight. "Dean, please. I've only a few days left. I'd rather not spend them in a holding cell."

"Yeah, we're on our way." Dean gropes around the side of the bed until he finds his boots. "You at the police station or the sheriff's office?"

"I'm at the District Attorney's office," Bela says. Dean hears a few muffled thumps behind her — close to her, but down the hallway or on the other side of a door. "I asked to see Singer, but he — he wouldn't help me."

Three strikes. Bobby doesn't like Bela, but he wouldn't leave her high and dry. Something tells Dean not to mention it. Instead, he says, "Okay. We'll be right down," and hangs up.

The mattress dips as Cas gets to his feet. He was naked the last time Dean looked; by the time he walks around the bed, he's fully dressed, down to his tie and shoes. He tips his head to the side and says, "You think she was lying." It isn't a question.

"I know she was lying," Dean says. "Her story was all right, but the details didn't add up." His feet want nothing to do with his boots, but he grits his teeth and starts stamping into them. "I just — I'd already told her we'd help her. I don't get why she spun me a fairy tale."

Cas frowns. "She might not have been in a position to tell the truth."

"What? You think someone was squeezing her?"

"It's possible."

Dean chews on that while he finishes lacing up his boots. He knows from experience that Bela's usually better at thinking on her feet. She must've been rattled to give him a story with so many holes in it. Rattled, or in a hurry. "Can't figure who. She's only here 'cause of her deal, so — aw, shit." He slaps his knees and looks up at Cas. "There's someone else after the Staff. Tweedledee and Tweedledum must've had a silent partner."

Cas just stares at him for a second. Then he huffs out an irritated sigh and says, "Of course. Controlling the crossroads has increased Crowley's power, but he's far from the top of Hell's hierarchy." A muscle tics in his jaw. "He couldn't have ordered ten demons to guard Ellsworth's truck. He doesn't have the authority."

"Great," Dean mutters, shrugging back into his red shirt. At some point during today's bullshit it earned itself a hole in its sleeve, but Dean figures this isn't a beauty contest. "Okay. The DA's office is — wait. Maybe I should... drive. Lead. Whatever. I wanna put us in Bobby's office so we don't drop right into something freaky."

Cas points at the dresser and asks, "What about the money?" The stainless steel suitcase is sitting on top of it; Cas must've visited Kevin while Dean was asleep.

"Forget it." Dean shakes his head and wraps his arms around Cas' waist. "I'd bet everything in there she doesn't need it."

Steering the Angel Express is smoother this time around — maybe because it isn't Dean's first rodeo, maybe because Cas isn't half-dead with exhaustion. Either way, Dean feels less like he's throwing himself off a cliff. Less like he's about to get sucked into space. He pictures the ugly, concrete bulwark of the Douglas County seat, then the boring wood and glass interior of Henriksen's outer office, then the upjumped storage closet where Bobby's keeps his filing cabinet and desk. He reaches for it. Sinks his fingers into it. Yanks himself and Cas toward it.

They land to the sound of someone screaming. A cloud of sulfur crowds into Dean's nose before he even opens his eyes. When his vision clears, he finds himself blinking at the topographical map of Lawrence that covers Bobby's back wall. He spins around. Bobby's door has been blown off its hinges. His wheelchair is in the doorway, on its side and empty. One of the wheels is bent.

Glass shatters in the next room. Dean looks at Cas and hisses, "Demon?"

"No," Cas says, shaking his head. "Archdemon. I can feel its corrupt power."

"Damn it." Dean doesn't know why he's surprised; it's been that kind of day. "You think you can take it?"

"Outside a devil's trap?" Cas shakes his head again. "Probably not. But I can try."

Dean doesn't like the sound of that. He holds up his hand and whispers, "Wait, wait." Then he crouch-walks to Bobby's desk and digs around. He comes up empty on the first drawer and emptier on the second, but he strikes gold on the third. Tucked behind a nearly drained bottle of Old Grand-Dad is a dusty and tired-looking thirty-eight special. Dean releases the cylinder, shakes out one of the bullets, and grabs the knife in his boot.

"What are you doing?" Cas asks.

"It's a trick Charlie taught me," Dean says, carving the tip of the bullet in quick, careful strokes. "Devil's trap bullet. Pins a demon in place for awhile."

"For how long?"

"On an archdemon?" Dean grimaces a little. "Probably not long. Might buy us a few minutes."

Another scream pierces the air. Cas says, "Dean, hurry."

Dean says, "I'm trying." Then the knife slips and nicks his thumb and he mutters, "Fuck, fuck," under his breath. "This thing is tiny. Why couldn't Bobby have a fifty caliber piece in his desk?"

More glass shatters. Wood splinters with a sharp, angry crack. Cas says, "Dean," again, but Dean is already standing. He feeds the devil's trap bullet into the thirty-eight's empty slot and lines it up with the barrel.

"All right. Let's go."

The outer office looks like a hurricane blew through it. Half the desks are overturned. Books and folders and papers are scattered all over the floor. Everything is covered in shards of broken glass. Bobby is a few feet from his wheelchair, sprawled out and unconscious. Bela is just behind him, curled against the wall and bleeding from her nose. Someone screams again — Nancy. She's crouched behind her desk and crying. Her phone is off the hook, the receiver hanging off the desk by its corkscrew cord. Henriksen is kneeling in his doorway. Blood is oozing from a cut on his cheek.

The demon is on the other side of the room. Dean recognizes the meatsuit immediately — Lilith. She has Sam backed against the wall and her hand around his throat.

"Where is it?" she demands.

Sam's face is so red it's practically purple. He works his mouth a few times like he's struggling to breathe. He wheezes before saying, "Told you. Don't know. Wasn't — wasn't in on the hunt."

"But your brother was. Your brother and his pet angel. And I can't find them for some reason." She digs her thumb under Sam's jaw hard enough to draw blood. "Where are they?"

"Right here," Dean barks. He levels the gun. "Let him go."

Lilith spares him half a glance over her shoulder. Then she waves her free hand and sends him flying across the room. As he slams into the wall, he sees Cas grab her by the shoulder and tear her away from Sam. Sam collapses with a groan, and Nancy lets out a gasp that breaks into a sob. Before Dean can get up, an invisible fist slams into Dean's jaw. His head knocks against the wall; he closes his eyes for a second so he won't have to watch the room spin.

When he opens them again, he finds Cas and Lilith locked in a mojo standoff. They're standing nose to nose and staring murder at each other. Dean can't see anything, but he can smell it — a sickening ebb and flow of sulfur and ozone. Sweat is beading on Cas' forehead, and Lilith's hands are clenching at her sides. The air feels prickly, ready to rip in half.

"The Staff is in Heaven," Cas grits.

"That's a shame." Lilith sighs like she's disappointed. "I told Sam that I wouldn't hurt anyone if he handed it over. Looks like I get to kill everyone now."

Dean glances around for the gun as Cas says, "No. I won't let you." It's on the other side of the room, about a foot and a half from Henriksen. Dean would have to crawl past Lilith to get it; he doubts he'd make it very far.

Lilith shrieks with laughter. "You? You don't have the juice. Just holding me is taking everything you have."

Henriksen is staring at Lilith and Cas, so Dean waves at Nancy to get her attention. Once he has it, he gestures to Henriksen. Nancy reaches over and touches his arm. On her second try, she snaps him out of his daze. She whispers to him, and Henriksen looks at Dean.

Dean points at the gun, then points at Lilith. After a moment, Henriksen nods. Slowly, he leans over and grabs it. Henriksen hesitates, so Dean points at Lilith again. She's focused on Cas and Henriksen is almost directly behind her; she won't notice him if he doesn't make any sudden moves.

Lilith tells Cas, "It's been a millennia since I killed an angel. I'm going to enjoy bathing in your blood."

Cas narrows his eyes. Whatever he does makes her flinch slightly, but she recovers by her next breath. Henriksen inches closer to her — one step, then another, then another. A shard of glass snaps under his shoe. Lilith curls her hand into a fist. Henriksen doubles over, grunting like he's been gut-punched. He squeezes a shot off before he hits the ground. Clips her right behind the ear.

Lilith jerks in place. Her arms swing uselessly at her sides, but she lets out another laugh. "Clever. Very clever. How long do you think this will hold me?"

Instead of answering, Cas grabs her around the throat. Light flares from his palm and throbs around her face like a heartbeat. Smoke dribbles out of her nose and mouth — not enough. Not nearly enough.

"Sammy," Dean shouts. He wrenched his knee when he fell; standing makes a sharp pain shoot up his leg. "Where's the shank?"

"Bobby's," Sam croaks.

"Fuck." That makes sense — working Crowley over with a regular knife would be like pissing in the wind — but it's not what Dean wants to hear. He mutters, "Fuck," again and tries to walk. He doesn't get very far before he has to lean on a desk.

"Look at you," Lilith sneers. Grace-light is blazing under her chin. "Trying so hard. Too bad you'll burn yourself out before you come anywhere close to killing me."

Cas' blade falls out of his sleeve. It hits the floor with a soft clink and rolls toward the desk behind him. Grunting, Sam lunges for it. He fumbles it on his first try but grabs it on his second. Once he's got it, he heaves himself up and plants it in Lilith's back.

Lilith screams. The blade buzzes and hums like the demon shank. It doesn't kill her, but she slumps a little. Shakes and sucks in a breath. It's enough to give Cas a second wind; he leans into her and tightens his grip on her throat. More smoke puffs out of her nose and mouth.

Pain spears through the center of Dean's scar. He — fuck. _His scar_. Dean hobbles toward Cas. He tugs his shirt down over his shoulder and shoves up the sleeve of his tee. Sam yanks the blade out of Lilith's back and stabs her again. Dean grabs Cas' free hand and slaps it against his scar.

Cas's palm flares brighter. Lilith screams again, but then a bolt of grace catches in her throat. It surges there for a second before bursting out of her eyes and nose and mouth. A new wave of sulfur swamps the air, strong enough that Dean nearly gags. Cas sucks in a breath and steps away from Lilith. She drops to the floor like a stone, her knees bending and her hair clouding around her face. One of her hands lands beside Dean's foot. Her bright blue fingernail polish is chipped.

Quietly, Nancy asks, "Is she — is she dead?"

Cas nods slightly. His mouth is thin and tight. He sways into Dean's shoulder, so Dean pulls him close before looking at Sam and asking, "How's the old man?"

Sam crouches beside Bobby and puts two fingers to his neck. After a pause, he says, "He's alive."

"Okay." Dean sighs with relief and looks over at Bela. She's blotting her bloody nose with her beige and brown scarf. He's pretty sure he knows the answer, but he still asks, "Was Lilith your huckleberry?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Okay, we —"

"Winchester," Henriksen barks. He's still holding Bobby's gun. "What the hell just happened in here?"

A beat passes. And another. Then Sam gives Dean an eyebrow and asks, "Do you want to tell him? Or do you want me to do it?"

"I got it," Dean mutters.

Thunder rolls overhead, close enough that it rattles the windows. Dean presses a quick kiss to Cas' temple. His leg is still screwed, so it takes him a minute to limp over to Bobby's office. He grabs the bottle of Old Grand-Dad and limps back out. The sulfur stench in the air is hanging around like skunk-spray.

Henriksen looks somewhere between furious and freaked out. Dean can relate. He claps him on the shoulder and says, "C'mon, Victor. It's time we had a chat."


	5. Friday (Six Months Later)

"What do you think?" Cas asks.

Dean leans over Cas' shoulder and squints at the monitor. He scans the article again, but it doesn't really tell him anything. It's just a clumsy rehash of the headline — _Five Bloodless Bodies Found in Church Basement_. Whoever wrote it must've had a minimum word count.

"Vampires," he says finally. "It's too far north for a chupacabra. Too far north and too many bodies."

Cas hums under his breath. He copies the article's link and emails it to himself like there's anything useful in it. Then he says, "I'll know when we get there. I'll be able to smell it."

"Show off," Dean says. He hides a kiss behind Cas' ear. "We can drive out there tonight."

"We can fly there tomorrow morning."

"Nope. No way." Dean straightens and sits on the edge of Cas' desk. "We agreed — anything under three hundred and fifty miles, I get to drive."

Cas sips his coffee. He gives Dean a flat look over the rim of his mug. "Sioux Falls is three hundred and eighty miles from here."

"Close enough," Dean says, shrugging.

"We can't leave tonight," Cas points out. He pauses to close out his email. His desktop background is a picture of two kittens sleeping in a hammock. "You haven't finished that Ramos thing."

Dean doesn't want to talk about the Ramos thing. It's an embezzlement gig, and Dean is tired of looking at invoices and bank statements. He is not a fucking accountant.

"And," Cas continues, like he knows Dean is about to complain about not being a fucking accountant. "Henriksen wants us to look at that body the police found in the river."

Dean snorts. Finding out monsters are real is a three-stage process — first denial, then paranoia, then acceptance. Henriksen is still on the "jumping at shadows" part of the curve. His river stiff is probably a drunk who took a long walk off a short pier.

"Okay. We'll leave in the morning." Dean snags Cas' coffee only to find it's practically empty. "Early, so I can drive."

"That works."

The office phone rings. Kevin picks it up and drones, "Winchester and Winchester Investigations," like he'd rather be doing anything else. After a very long pause, he says, "Sure. I'll see if they're available."

Another pause. Then Kevin's chair creaks. He shuffles away from his desk and opens the office door. He pokes his head in with his hand over his eyes because he's an asshole. It was _one time_. And Dean and Cas weren't even doing anything. They were just kinda/sorta making out a little.

"You two decent?"

A car alarm starts wailing. Dean sighs and asks, "Who's on the phone?"

"Madge Carrigan."

Dean's eye twitches. Madge Carrigan is their latest divorce job. Dean's glad she's getting out — her husband is a state senator on his third or fourth hookers-and-blow scandal — but the whole thing is so screwed up he almost misses the Starks.

"It's your turn," Cas says, scratching the back of his neck. "She had me on the phone for an hour this morning."

"Nope." Dean shakes his head. "She trapped me here for two hours yesterday."

A smile tugs at Cas' mouth. He grabs the front of Dean's shirt and tugs Dean down for a kiss. He nips at Dean's lips and touches the hollow of Dean's throat. Then he zaps out right in Dean's face.

After blinking for a second, Dean looks up at the ceiling and shouts, "Coward!"

Kevin sighs deeply. "You're always surprised. It's like you forget that he can do that."

"Whatever. Why're you still here?"

"Madge Carrigan."

"Oh, yeah. Tell her —" Dean pauses to glance at the clock. It's almost noon. "Tell her to stop by after lunch."

Kevin says, "Sure thing, boss," and lets himself out.

Dean walks over to his desk and sinks into his chair. His computer perks up; _his_ desktop background is a wide-angle of the Impala at sunset. He moves his mouse so he won't bump it again and digs up his office bottle. If Madge Carrigan is coming by, he's going to need it.

He slops one finger of whiskey into Cas' nearly empty mug. Just one — he promised Cas he'd ease up a little. He kicks his legs up and leans back until his chair threatens him with a creak. Sunlight is streaming through the window, painting a yellow-white rectangle across the middle of Cas' desk. Cas' green jacket is hanging on the back of his chair. It used to be Dean's green jacket, but Cas stole it during a stakeout last month and refuses to give it back.

 _Hey_. Dean smiles. _Bring back some burgers for lunch._


End file.
